


Risen from Darkness

by Baniac



Series: Child of Darkness [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Angst, Bane origin story, Drama, F/M, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 75
Words: 146,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baniac/pseuds/Baniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An origin story of Bane, revealing the heart and motivation of the man behind the mask. This story follows Bane from his childhood in the pit prison through his rescue by Ra's al Ghul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            Her raspy breathing had stopped somewhere in the night; the boy knew not when. To his shame, he had fallen asleep during his vigil. Had he awakened at the very moment of her death? Maybe she had waited for him to awaken before surrendering at last and passing on to whatever realm lay beyond this life. Her hand, still clasping his on the charpoy, quickly lost what little warmth had been there these last hours. As the cold seeped into her flesh, he extricated his hand and wiped at the silent tears that trickled down his face.

            He sat up on the edge of the charpoy. There was no light in their cell. Even during the day the only source of illumination was what managed to struggle down the five hundred foot shaft at the center of the subterranean prison. Sometimes they had a fire in the small brazier near the center of their cell, but that barely gave off enough light by which to read. His eyes, however, accustomed to so much gloom since his birth, did not need sunlight or fire to see his mother now.

            Death’s veil paled her skin so that her face and hands seemed to glow, stealing her beauty. Although his mother was the only woman he had ever seen, he knew she must be the most beautiful of all those who lived in the world beyond theirs, like the princesses in the stories she recited to him. The other prisoners all said the same, though their words were not of flattery but of lust. Even in one as young as the boy, he sensed the difference, knew it from the undercurrent of fear in which his mother had lived lest those men somehow gained access to her behind her protective bars. Now she no longer had to fear them or the hell in which she had lived. The boy tried to take comfort in such thoughts as he lay back down beside her, his tears trailing to his thin pillow, and waited for morning as around him the prison—for once—seemed to have fallen completely silent.

#

            A few hours later, in the hint of light that was known as dawn here in the depths, Doctor Assad arrived at the boy’s cell. Already the prison was awake—men’s voices echoing against the stone walls, beyond the protective blankets that shielded the ragged boy and his mother from prisoners in adjacent cells, some even laughing harshly over something unknown, others cursing, others—those with little of their minds left—warming up to their daily ritual of wails. The boy was used to the sounds, of course; they were the fabric of this place as much as the stone floors and walls and the iron bars.

            Doctor Assad’s gaze was upon the boy’s mother even before he unlocked the cell door. He had brown eyes so pale that they had always mesmerized the boy. The doctor, too, was a prisoner, but by serving as physician to the two hundred condemned in the pit he received privileges from their jailers—better and more plentiful food and clothes, a larger cell with a comfortable bed and rugs, a seemingly endless supply of books to read, and extra fuel for his nightly fire to combat the earth’s relentless chill.

            Once inside, Assad diligently locked the door behind him before stepping over to the charpoy where the boy sat on the edge, tears spent, eyes puffy and irritated. The doctor offered a sympathetic frown as he settled next to him and briefly touched his shoulder.

            “She is at peace now,” Assad said. He took the blanket from the corpse and draped it around the shivering boy. “You must try to keep warm; that is what your mother would want you to do. No need for you to die of pneumonia, too.” He forced a smile before gesturing at the blankets that covered the bars. “After she is gone, we will take those down, but you may keep them; I will see that it is allowed. You will need the extra warmth now that you will have no one to share your bed.” The doctor winced at his own callousness. “I am sorry, my boy.”

            “Where will they take her?” the child said near a whisper, the tears having made his throat sore.

            “To the surface to be buried.”

            “Where?”

            “Not far from here.”

            The boy faltered before he could ask the question he had been pondering among so many others during the long night. “What will become of me?”

            Assad sighed. “They said if your mother was to die…you would remain here.”

            Although the boy had never been certain that he would willingly leave the pit—the only place he had ever known in life—without his mother, he now felt an overwhelming desire to do just that, to accompany her body to its final resting place then to walk off into the light. But what did a child born in darkness know of the world of light except what he had read in books or learned from other prisoners? Perhaps he should take comfort in the doctor’s words, yet it was difficult when he thought of his mother’s dreams for him to one day escape the pit.

            “After all,” Assad echoed his thoughts, “where would you go if they set you free? You are just a boy, and what lies beyond this pit is little better, in truth, than what is here.”

            “But my mother—”

            “The man whose disfavor she incurred those years ago, the one who saw her into this place, still lives, and if he were to find out that you not only exist but that you were freed, he would find you and kill you. No, my boy, you are better off here in the shadows.”

             “But you told my mother I would be able to leave, that you knew of someone who would take me—”

            “I told her what a dying mother needed to hear to ease her passing.” His eyes had grown stern, leaving no room for argument. “Would you rather she had died with the fear of what would become of you here without her?”

            Ashamed, the boy bowed his head and murmured, “No, sir.”

            “Of course not.” The doctor patted the boy’s knee and stood. “Now…come along. You can stay with me until they’ve taken her away.”

            Reluctantly the boy stood, stiff and shivering even with the blanket around him, the blanket that held his mother’s comforting scent. From next to his pillow he picked up the stuffed bear she had given him—battered, patched, and loyal since his birth, his only playmate. He shuffled to the door where he paused to look back. If not for her blue pallor, he could believe she were merely sleeping, sleeping as she dreamed of the home that she had always imagined for them, a place of warm sunlight and love, a place where they could be reunited with his father.


	2. Chapter 2

            “ _Deshi_ _basara_!”

            Although the boy had heard the chant hundreds of times, a chill scraped down his spine whenever those two words echoed through the massive prison shaft, repeated over and over. And each time it rang out, as now, its hypnotic cadence drew him to the front of his cell. In anticipation he wrapped his hands so tightly around the clammy, rusted iron bars that the color washed away from his knuckles. He had been fortunate in the location of his cell, for it faced the open shaft, affording more light to him than to the prisoners whose cells lay in the corridors stretching away from the shaft. And thus it also allowed him to view the prisoners’ never ending attempts to escape by scaling the walls of the shaft.

            The man who tried today was strongly built, so a surge of optimism stirred the boy, and for a moment his small voice joined in the chant: “ _Deshi_ _basara_!” _He rises_. After all, if but one of them succeeded, they all succeeded, for at the top of the shaft lay coils of rope used to lower new prisoners—or raise the dead ones—ropes that one liberated man could toss down to save the masses below. Yet for now these were but a tantalizing symbol of what could not be obtained, for no matter how many men tried, all failed.

            A handful of prisoners had gathered at the base of the circular shaft, which formed a _bawdi_ —a stepwell with its many flights of stairs hewn out of the stone walls on all sides, leading down, one level after another in a diamond pattern to a large, square pool of water. The men’s faces were turned upward as they watched the progress of the climber, their mouths chanting in guttural unison, their eyes alight with the distant reflection of the sky.

            A stout rope encircled the climber’s waist and snaked upward to a block and tackle secured in the wall two thirds of the way up the shaft where it was rove through, the fall coming back down to a burly, shirtless, tattooed inmate. Should the climber lose his grip on the wall’s outcroppings, his lethal descent would be cut short by the rope—albeit painfully—to keep him from smashing like an egg at the bottom of the shaft.

            The climber’s bare feet and hands carefully sought the various crevices and jutting stones that took him farther away from the boy’s gaze. Higher, until the light from above nearly obscured the spider-like image against the wall. It had been a long time since anyone had achieved that height. The chanting had taken on a frenzied tone, but the boy had fallen silent, holding his breath. They had hoisted his mother up that shaft yesterday. Perhaps today he would visit her grave.

            “ _Deshi_ _basara_!” ever louder, filling the cavernous shaft, blocking all other noises until the only sound that existed in the world was that propelling, urging, desperate intonation. They were the first two words the boy could remember hearing in his life, even before his own name, a name that he knew he would never hear again; it had been buried with his mother.

            The climber scaled almost out of view, the boy’s line of sight hindered by the stone ceiling that stretched away from the bank of cells to open upon the stepwell. All he could see now were the man’s feet, one rising just above the other, precariously searching, searching…then…slipping...first the one foot then the other…his arms now taking the full burden of his weight…

            The chant abruptly stopped.

            Then came the scream, the horrible plummet, the flailing arms and legs while the prisoners below watched like jackals. To the boy each fall was different. Some seemed meteoric while others appeared slow and somehow graceful. His mother had tried her best to shield him, but morbid fascination had won out on many occasions, especially the older he grew. Now no succoring arms drew him to the rear of the cell, no muffling hands covered his ears or eyes. So he stood entranced as the climber fell to the end of his tether, and with a snap his body bent sharply backward with his impulsion. The scream died, the body swung once against the wall with a dull thud, swung back toward the center of the shaft like a dead fowl. The prisoner showed no sign of life as his body was lowered to the steps.

            The audience muttered and cursed the fool’s failure, then fragmented and went separate ways. The doctor was there beside the fallen. His examination was brief; he shook his head at the man in charge of the rope.

            The boy did not take his eyes off the motionless lump of defeated humanity. He admired the prisoner, no matter how fatally futile his effort. Would he one day be courageous enough to try the climb himself? Often he had told his mother that he would indeed and that he would succeed where others had not, that he would save them both. “My son,” she had said, “a child cannot succeed where men have failed.” He knew she had not said it to belittle him; she simply said it out of fear of his failure, of watching him fall as she had watched so many others. And now, with her gone, who was there to save? He would not do it for the other prisoners, for he had no love for them as they had none for him. Perhaps the doctor was right and he should remain here. Yet when he thought of his father, he knew he had to try.

            Someone stopped in front of his cell, so close and so unexpected that he gave a small gasp and took a step back. The form blocked the light and his view of the stepwell. He smelled the prisoner, knew him by his unwashed scent alone without even having to look at his homely face. When he lifted his eyes, the hunched figure of the Vulture smiled at him, the light from behind shining dully on his pate, nearly bald except for a comical ring of thin hair.

            “Nothing new to see here today, eh, Bane?”

            The boy frowned at the name. The Vulture had bestowed the moniker back when he had been a newborn, for his cries had often kept the nervous man up at night in the adjacent cell. “The bane of my existence, that one,” he had said to the boy’s mother and often reminded him of it over the years, living there on the other side of the shielding blanket. Now the shield was down.

            The Vulture crouched, the cool smile never wavering, the dark eyes almost aglow. “Hey now, boy. Nothing to say to your old friend? I’d think you’d be glad to speak freely now that your dear mother is gone, seeing as how she never let you spend the time with me that you wanted.”

            Bane puzzled his words, wondering when he had ever expressed a desire to linger in the man’s presence. It was not that he despised the Vulture; he had no reason to, especially considering the time the man had spent tutoring him in both Spanish and Arabic (the Vulture claimed he had a parent from each culture, though he spoke English as clearly as Bane). No, his caution around the man—or any prisoner—had been ingrained in him by his mother. She had remained safely locked in her cell these many years; anything that needed to be gathered for her well-being was done so by Bane, the doctor, or sometimes even the Vulture. In fact, it was those few kindnesses shown to her by the Vulture that kept Bane’s own wariness to a minimum.

            Knowing he should respond to the man’s inquiry, Bane murmured, “I miss her.”

            “Why, of course you do, boy. But as hard as it is to hear, the truth of the matter is she’s not coming back any more than that poor bastard out there is going to resurrect.” His smile broadened before he seemed to remember himself and adopted a more reserved expression. “Being alone isn’t the thing for you, so used to having someone around to look out for you, eh? Why don’t you come sit a spell with me, and we’ll work some more on your Spanish? Got a new piece of chalk for that slate of yours.” He winked.

            The whisper of his mother’s voice compelled Bane to hesitate again. “Maybe—maybe later.”

            “Later?” The Vulture laughed his familiar dry squawk. “Something more important on your calendar, is there? Picking lice maybe? Or playing with that moldy old bear of yours? You’re too old for that. Sure, you’re nigh a man now, I’d say.”

            While the flattery succeeded in buoying Bane for a moment, the whisper was still there, so he took another step back from the bars and mumbled, “Maybe tomorrow.”

            The smile died, and the light dimmed in the Vulture’s eyes. “Suit yourself.” He stood. “But don’t you keep me awake again tonight with your bawling.”


	3. Chapter 3

            Regardless of the Vulture’s admonition, the tears flowed anyway that night, so Bane kept his back to his neighbor, buried himself and his bear, Osito, beneath his wealth of blankets—three in all, the oldest being quite threadbare but serviceable nonetheless. He had no fuel for a fire—he had used up his most recent allotment during his mother’s last days—so he curled up into a tight ball to preserve body heat and gently rocked himself in a charpoy suddenly large. In an attempt to muffle his sobs, he buried his face against Osito. To his relief the Vulture snored on and never awoke to berate him.

            As he lay awake in the thick blackness, tears finally spent, he considered the Vulture and the other inmates. Of course, the prison had been abuzz with word of his mother’s passing. A few of the prisoners had actually offered condolences to him, but most who passed his cell did nothing more than glance at the charpoy where she had lain prostrate for so many days as her lungs filled and she coughed like one drowning. But no matter whether they spoke to him or ignored him, he felt as alone as if he were the only soul in the pit. Perhaps he had been hasty in avoiding the Vulture. After all, Bane’s other neighbor—a man called Abrams—surely had not offered to associate any more with him than he had since arriving in the prison three years ago. A eunuch, the Vulture had whispered to him, though even after an explanation of the term Bane saw none of the humor in the revelation that the Vulture obviously found. Abrams was a sullen fellow, resigned to his fate and seemingly wanting nothing more than to be left alone.

            When morning came Bane half-heartedly ate a breakfast of cold oatmeal gruel before he left his cell and wandered out to the stepwell. Some prisoners were already there, washing in the pool. They ignored him, and he ignored them. As he finished, Doctor Assad settled next to him with the sigh of one who had slept little.

            “How are you today, my boy?”

            Bane shrugged, unsure of his voice after the lonely night.

            “Where’s that bear of yours?”

            Bane realized for the first time that he had not carried Osito with him, and a shiver of panic coursed through him, bringing him to his feet.

            “Don’t worry,” Assad insisted. “No one will bother you with me here.” He splashed water on his face and dried himself with a ragged towel tossed over his shoulder. “Why don’t you come to my cell? I have a fire still burning. You should warm yourself.”

            The prospect of warmth and companionship after the endless night encouraged him to follow the doctor back to his cell. Once there, Bane crouched in front of the brazier, palms outstretched toward the delicious glow.

            “Here,” the doctor said, handing him a small hunk of coarse bread.

            “I’ve eaten.”

            “Eat some more.”

            “But it’s yours.”

            “Now it’s yours. Eat.”

            Bane did not hesitate a second time and devoured the bread. Then he sat cross-legged on a woven mat with his back to the brazier, absorbing the wonderful heat through his loose, dark gray tunic, the chill from the stone floor held at bay. Assad sat on his bed to mend a shirt, and for a time Bane watched in silence. He had learned to entertain himself by observing others. He would sit for hours at the top of the stepwell as prisoners came and went, studying their individual habits, learning which ones were the more fastidious, which ones were the most careless, knowing those traits translated into other aspects of their personalities. Most of the men paid him no heed, but some glared at him and cursed him, the more guarded ones sometimes cuffing him across the head to discourage his hobby. But through those endless hours spent in the stepwell he had come to know most of the prisoners, whether just physically or personally, and thus he knew whom to avoid and whom to seek out for camaraderie or resources.

            Now, as he watched the doctor’s deft fingers moving smoothly in his work, Bane was reminded of his mother whenever she had mended their clothes. The memory brought a melancholy smile to his face.

            “Can I ask you something?”

            Assad grunted, not looking up from his work. “Of course.”

            “You said the man who sent my mother here is still alive. How do you know?”

            The doctor’s eyes remained on his work. “Your mother did not deserve her fate. In this part of the world especially it is often the women who pay for the sins of men. She was guilty of nothing more than loving the wrong man.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Call me an old fool with a soft heart, but nothing seemed so cruel to me as her being here. If not for you, I would rejoice that she is dead and gone from this place. Everyone here, including myself, deserves to be here for things we’ve done, but your mother…” He shook his head, finally glanced at Bane then back to his work. “I’ve felt it’s my duty to be informed, for your mother’s sake, about the man who banished her to this hell.”

            “Why? What difference does it make?”

            “Maybe I hoped that if he should die then she could—you both could—be free again. But, alas, evil has a way of enduring.”

            The idea that the death of his mother’s condemner might have liberated them, might liberate him still, stirred Bane and moved him to sit on the bed.

            “So if he dies, you will know, then I can be free?”

            Assad frowned, hesitated in his work, then set his needle aside to look at Bane. “Without your mother, the world above would destroy you in an instant. You have no family, no interests.”

            “But I could find my father.”

            The doctor sighed. “You are too young to understand the world beyond this pit. Your father remains ignorant of your very existence. You think you know how he would react to learning of you, but men are not so predictable. And even if he was pleased within himself, surely his wife—if he is married—would not be so pleased to learn that her husband had fathered a child with another woman. I’m sorry to paint such a bleak picture, Bane, but you need to understand the reality of this.”

            “So I’m to live here forever?” he mumbled. “I promised my mother that we’d both be free one day, and when she was sick I told her that no matter what happened to her, I’d find my father. She loved him, and he loved her. He should know what happened to us.”

            “No. It is best that he does not. You must trust me on this.”

            Bane could see that he would never convince the doctor, so he fell silent and instead watched his fingers take up the needle again and work.

            “May I come with you on your rounds today?”

            Assad smiled at him. “A fine idea. You must keep yourself busy, my boy. Let yourself grieve—it is natural and necessary—but you must not allow yourself to despair and sink into the blackness that so many find here.” He winked. “You have your whole life ahead of you, and your father cannot live forever. Perhaps by then one of those foolish climbers will make it to the top.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

            Ever since he was old enough to cajole permission from his mother, Bane often accompanied Doctor Assad on his daily rounds of the prison. Eager for knowledge, he quickly memorized the names of all the various drugs, their purpose, and how each was administered. Over time he was able to endure the sight of blood and of wounds suffered during escape attempts or brawling. He could hold his own hands steady enough to pierce a vein and draw blood into a syringe when allowed by the doctor. For some time now Assad had been teaching him Latin, and he had gotten proficient enough that they could converse in the ancient tongue whenever their conversations needed to be confidential, whether in the presence of a patient or when together elsewhere.

            “He is like a sponge, your boy,” Assad had often said to Bane’s mother. “A keen pupil.”

            She had taken great pride in her son’s aptitude and encouraged him to learn all that he could from anyone trusted enough to teach him. “Someday,” she had told Bane, “you will be a great man. You will show them that even this place cannot deny you your destiny.”

            One of their patients was an elderly man, a Serb, blind and nearly deaf, who had been a prisoner for fifty of his seventy years. He lay dying from a cancerous tumor in his stomach, had been dying for some weeks now, but when Bane saw him this day, he knew the man’s time was nearly up. His breathing was so shallow, his face so drawn, reminding Bane of his mother.

            “You don’t have to stay,” the doctor said to Bane when he saw his troubled expression.

            The prisoner stirred at these words, and his cloudy eyes opened partway. One bony hand slowly lifted from his distended belly, swung outward from the charpoy, toward Bane who stood in the open door of the cell. He croaked, “The boy…?”

            Bane swallowed and glanced from the Serb to the doctor who settled on the edge of the charpoy and patiently waited for him to decide. Bane knew the prisoner well, for he was one of the few whom his mother allowed him to visit in his cell, even before his sickness. The old man liked telling tales of his youth, and Bane relished listening and learning about the outside world and in particular about the days when the prisoner had once been a soldier. But now…now he did not want to watch another person die, not so soon after…

            The skeletal fingers, however, beckoned pathetically, and Bane found himself shuffling over to the charpoy. He knelt and took the cold hand. As he did so, a weak smile slid across the old man’s face, and his rigid body relaxed. The doctor offered Bane an appreciative smile as he reached into his battered leather bag for the bottle of laudanum.

            Once the doctor had drawn forth the dosage with a calibrated dropper, he directed Bane to support the old man’s head so he could swallow the reddish-brown opiate. Once the Serb had meekly done so, Bane gently returned his head to the pillow. All the while the man continued to hold his hand.

            “Rest, my friend,” the doctor told him. “It won’t be long now.”

            He packed away his supplies. Bane noticed the prisoner in one of the adjoining cells eying the medical bag. Of course, many in the prison would murder any number of men to possess the drugs that lay within; that was why the doctor carried only what he needed for his rounds. The rest were secured in a lockbox in the doctor’s cell, and only he knew the combination; he did not even trust it to Bane, for he knew to do so would be to endanger the child’s life.

            When the doctor stood to leave, Bane tried to do the same, but the Serb would not release his hand. His strength amazed Bane.

            “Stay,” the man rasped. “Your mother said…she would send you to me.”

            Bane stared at him. “But she’s…she’s dead.”

            The Serb gave a shallow nod, and his blind eyes somehow found his. “Stay,” he repeated.

            The doctor touched Bane’s shoulder and, in Latin, reiterated that he did not have to remain if he did not wish to do so. Bane looked back to the filmy eyes, frowned. He must not fear the death of others; his mother had told him as much. Sometimes it came as a tragedy, other times as a blessing. He needed to accept death, hers included; he needed to steel himself to it, conquer its fear, for he would surely witness more of it, whether within these shadowy walls or beyond. He needed to be strong, both emotionally and physically, if he was to one day climb into the light and seek his father. The Vulture had said he was nearly a man now. And men did not weep every night into their pillow or at the sight of some old man breathing his last.

            “I’ll stay with him,” Bane said.

            The doctor smiled and nodded. “Very well. I shall lock you in and come back in an hour or so.”

            Bane listened to the doctor tread down the stone corridor, accompanied by crude shouts from various prisoners, each trying to coax him into sharing the contents of his bag. When Bane became aware of the attention from the prisoner in the cell to his left, the one who had been staring at the doctor’s bag a moment before, he met the man’s gaze. An American named Greyson. A soldier of fortune.

            “Why’d the doctor waste his time with that one?” Greyson jerked his chin toward the Serb. “Throwin’ away precious drugs on a dead man.”

            Bane bristled at his tone. “He wanted to ease his passing.”

            The American laughed harshly and spat toward the old man, the spittle striking one of the bars separating the cells and leisurely sliding downward in the scrap of light that trailed along the corridor. “A God damn shame, I tell you. Did he waste his stash on your whore of a mother, too?”

            If not for the old man gripping his hand, Bane would have bolted toward the bars and spat on the bearded American. But the Serb said something, drawing Bane’s focus back as his blood raced. Barely perceptible, the prisoner shook his head as if to discourage Bane from trading insults with Greyson.

            “Just as well she’s dead,” the American continued. “Nothin’ but a torment to the rest of us, having her here. Somethin’ to be seen but never touched. No doubt they put her here on purpose just for that reason…to torture the rest of us. What I would have done to her…”

            “Shut up,” Bane snapped. The old man’s hand somehow tightened upon his.

            Greyson laughed once, harsh and loud. “You won’t last now. Some of these sons of bitches had a soft spot for you because of her, but now that she’s gone you’re just one more mouth to feed. You with that cell way up by the well. Prime real estate, boy. I wouldn’t mind having that myself. Course I’d get rid of that damn Vulture. Wouldn’t want him next to me for nothin’.” He eyed Bane with a leer. “You’ll find out what I mean.”

            “Even if I was gone, you wouldn’t get my cell. You deserve to be back here with the rats.”

            Greyson laughed again and stretched out on his charpoy. “Least the rats are better company.” He emitted a sardonic sigh and closed his eyes. “Soon enough you’ll be going the way of that bastard next to you. Mark my words.”

            Anger clenched Bane’s hands until he realized he might be hurting the old man. He forced himself to look away from the recalcitrant American and ask, “Can I get you some water?”

            The Serb shook his head, his eyes closed once again. “Soon I will sleep,” he whispered as the opiate worked its spell upon him. “Then the darkness will be gone, and I will see again…I will see the light.” His hand finally freed Bane, but instead of returning to rest upon his chest again, the hand rose up, up in a shaky effort until it found Bane’s face. At first Bane wanted to pull away from the icy touch, but something allowed him to endure the searching fingers that mapped his features. “Do not forget the light, Bane. Men…like him,” his other hand gave a tiny flutter toward the adjacent cell, “they will try to steal it from you and bury you in darkness. But you must not allow it; you must fight against it. You must seek the light, even if, at first, it frightens you.”

            Bane did not know what to say, taken aback by the old man’s concern for him.

            The hand slipped back to the charpoy, and Bane drew the blanket farther up the prisoner’s chest, covering his hands. He watched the drug loosen the Serb’s features and settle his breathing.

            “Stay,” the old man whispered again, barely loud enough to be heard, “just until the light comes.”


	5. Chapter 5

            By the time Doctor Assad returned to the cell, the Serb had died. Bane had watched him go, just as he had watched his mother. Of course, he did not feel the same sadness, but he did experience grief for the man, for the family he had once told him about, a family that would never know what had become of him, a family that could never even conceive of this place. But once he stepped from the cell with Assad’s supportive hand upon his shoulder, he compelled himself to leave thoughts of the dead man behind.

            He spent the rest of the day with the doctor, reading aloud from _A Tale of Two Cities_. The doctor had eclectic reading tastes, his collection ranging from Dickens and Shakespeare to modern religious and political leaders. While Bane did not completely understand all that he read, he was working his way through every volume on the shelves that lined the rear of the doctor’s cell. He had even tried to induce other prisoners into performing _Hamlet_ as one of many diversions to make life more tolerable, but he was unable to solicit a shared enthusiasm from more than one or two inmates. He did not, however, give up hope for ways of improving their lot.

            Bane shared his evening meal with the doctor before trailing back to his own cell. Osito awaited him, propped up by his pillow on the charpoy. Thoughts of the old Serb and of the American’s words slipped back into his consciousness, stealing away some of his contentment from his time spent reading. He frowned and sat on his charpoy, folding Osito into his arms; his mother’s scent still lingered upon the toy.

            Gradually he became aware of the Vulture humming from the next cell. Not a particularly soothing sound, for the prisoner was notoriously tone deaf. But the lightness of the tune drew Bane’s curiosity, and he turned to find the man sitting on his charpoy, intent upon molding something in his hands. A tiny bit of wood, it seemed. The Vulture’s knife—barely more than a pen knife really—worked upon the block, nicking away crumbs of wood that fell to the stone floor between his feet. His dark eyes flicked toward Bane, and he flashed his usual macabre smile.

            “Want to help me, boy?”

            “With what?”

            “I’m making a chess set.”

            “What’s that?”

            “A game. A game for men with sharp wits. I reckon you could be considered such a one, spending all your time reading and learning languages and medicine. I figure once I’m done with the board and the pieces, I can show you how it’s played, if you care to learn, that is.”

            “Of course,” Bane said eagerly. “Is it like checkers or backgammon?”

            The Vulture scoffed. “Checkers or backgammon? Those are for mental midgets, boy, not men of intellect like you and me.” He chuckled and went back to whittling.

            Bane peered closer. “It looks like a horse.” Of course, he had never seen a live horse, but he had seen pictures of them in books and old magazines that somehow made their way into the prison, passed around until they fell apart from too many rough, dirty hands or were used as fuel in someone’s fire.

            “It’s called a knight.”

            “A knight? Like in Camelot? But a knight is a man, not a horse.”

            The Vulture momentarily appeared confused. “Well, a knight rides a horse, don’t he? Sure, and this is his horse.” He held up the crude carving with greedy pride, as if he possessed a diamond that he had mined himself. “If you wasn’t so busy with the doc and dying old men, you could help me make the set.”

            Bane quickly insisted, “I could help…right now.”

            The Vulture’s smile grew crooked. “But you don’t have a knife, do you?”

            A leading question, one Bane knew better than to answer honestly. He frowned and shook his head, inadvertently hugging Osito closer to his chest.

            “Well, I suppose you could use mine, then tomorrow maybe the good doctor will loan you one of his blades. Two of us will get the work done twice as fast, eh?”

            “But I don’t know what I’m making.”

            “I’ll show you. I’m almost done with this one. We need three more just like it. Then we need to paint two of them black.”

            “With what?”

            The Vulture chuckled again, pleased with himself. “I just so happen to have…this.” From amidst the folds of his blanket, he held up a diminutive bottle of black paint, no more than two inches tall. “If you like, I’ll leave the painting to you.”

            Bane wondered what the Vulture had traded away to acquire the paint, but he did not think long upon it, too interested in the knight.

            “Well,” the Vulture gestured, “what are you waiting for?”

            Bane hesitated. “Can’t you just hand it to me through the bars?”

            “Give my knife away just like that?” He tsked. “Do you take me for a fool, boy?”

            “I’d give it back.”

            “Maybe you would. Maybe you’d trade it away before I could get it back.”

            “I wouldn’t do that.”

            The Vulture licked his lips. “I would.”

            Bane scowled, his fingers toying with Osito’s worn fabric. The prospect of a long, lonely evening stretched before him as he considered his choices.

            The Vulture stood from his work long enough to stoke the fresh fire in his brazier, its flaring blaze bouncing against Bane’s cheeks, tantalizing him with its promise of warmth. Patiently the Vulture resumed his wretched humming, his gaze occasionally flashing at Bane, a taunting smile in one corner of his mouth. The knife blade caught the fire’s dance.

            “All right,” Bane acquiesced at last. “Just for a little while till I get tired.”

            The Vulture grunted his satisfaction but did not look up from his work until Bane stood outside of his cell door, holding Osito with both hands. With irritating leisure to punish Bane for his hesitancy, the man set aside his carving to unlock the door. Then with a dramatic flourish he bowed to Bane and swept an arm toward his charpoy. Bane would have scowled at his theatrics if not afraid of insulting the man and losing the opportunity to work on the knight. As he entered, Bane felt one of the Vulture’s spidery hands graze the top of his shorn head, almost like a caress. Instinctively Bane hugged Osito tighter.

            The Vulture sat next to him on the charpoy, too close for comfort, but Bane suffered his nearness, keeping Osito against his other side.

            “Must you carry that damned bear everywhere, boy? As I said, you’re too old for such childishness.”

            Bane ignored the remark and held out his hand for the knife. The Vulture hesitated, his gaze suspicious for a moment, then the sly smile returned.

            “First, watch me finish this one. Then you can begin the next one.”

            The Vulture’s fingers moved skillfully in their work, and Bane found himself almost spellbound as they slowly revealed the knight in all its wooden glory. The man seemed to have a gift for the craft, amazing Bane, for he had never known the Vulture to have any abilities beyond that of wheedling his way out of trouble with his silver tongue or occasionally pinching an item from an unsuspecting inmate’s pocket. Bane’s own fingers twitched in anticipation of emulating the Vulture’s work. The man seemed to sense Bane’s eagerness and thus took his time, grinning privately as Bane squirmed.

            “May I paint it?”

            “Paint or carve…can’t do both at the same time, dear boy.”

            “I could paint it then carve the next one.”

            “Or I could paint it while you carve.”

            Bane sighed in frustrated disappointment.

            A chortle rumbled in the Vulture’s thin neck. “Well, I suppose I could finish my supper while you paint, then I’ll show you how to carve.”

            The Vulture handed the knight to Bane then shook the small bottle of paint to mix it. Grinning, Bane turned the knight over and over in his hands, the firelight burnishing the figure as he imagined a man in armor wielding a lance astride a galloping black horse, imagined _he_ were that man. He set aside the knife when the Vulture handed him the unscrewed bottle top; a tiny brush protruded from the underside. The smell of paint filled Bane’s senses.

            “If you aren’t careful,” the Vulture crooned, “you might get paint on Osito. Why don’t I set him over here by me?”

            The man started to reach around Bane, but in a flash Bane turned his body to block the attempt, at the same time dropping the knight and reaching for Osito. He jumped to his feet and away from the charpoy. The Vulture also stood, his form placed between Bane and the door. Like a pitiful weapon, Bane held the paint cap between them, his heart thumping against his chest. As he stood there for that long, silent second, he was uncertain what had made him react so, what exactly had caused such fear. After all, the Vulture had never offered to harm him during these many years…

            The Vulture did not advance but held out a supplicating hand between them. “Easy there, boy. I didn’t mean no harm. I was just going to move him is all.” He offered a wan smile, making Bane feel a bit foolish.

            The bright coals hissed in the brazier. Night, as usual, had come to the pit with mind-numbing swiftness, and the voices from down the corridors seemed louder than during the day. With senses heightened by his inexplicable inner alarm, Bane caught the faint stirring of Abrams in the cell beyond his, felt the man’s attention upon them from the ebony blur of his charpoy.

            Moving warily, almost subserviently, bent slightly at the waist, the Vulture gestured toward the charpoy then shuffled sideways toward it, the smile still plastered at a sickly angle. “Come now, sit back down. Lucky you didn’t spill the paint. Where would we get more?”

            Bane swallowed in a dry throat, considered the knight which the Vulture had picked up from the charpoy and held out to him.

            “I’m sorry,” the Vulture offered in a wounded tone. “I promise I won’t touch your bear.”

            Gradually Bane’s muscles unlocked, his heartbeat slowing. Perhaps he should go back to his cell. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here tonight. Maybe, after time had slipped between him and his mother’s death, he would feel more like himself; he would not feel so alone and vulnerable.

            The Vulture perched on the edge of the charpoy, the hand with the chess piece now drooping hopelessly, his other holding the bottle, his eyes reflecting the glow from the coals. Shame slipped in among Bane’s confused emotions, and he sighed in capitulation as the unpainted knight beckoned him. Slowly he returned to the charpoy, but this time he made sure there was significant space between himself and the Vulture.

            Some of the Vulture’s confidence returned to his face. He set the paint bottle down on the floor within Bane’s reach and put the knight between them.

            “All right then. No harm, no foul, as they say. You paint; I’ll eat.”

            Bane kept one eye on the prisoner as he worked, Osito tight against his side. The Vulture remained near the brazier as he ate his meager fare, now and then glancing Bane’s way and offering a waxen smile. When Bane was finished, he had as much paint on his fingers as on the chess piece.

            “Put it here in front of the fire,” the Vulture encouraged. “It’ll dry quickly that way. But not too close; don’t want it to smolder or the paint to bubble, do we?”

            Silently Bane obeyed, and the Vulture finished his meal.

            “Now then. Here’s a fresh block.” He gingerly handed Bane a piece of wood from the small pile near the foot of the charpoy then took up the knife. He raised his eyebrows in question. Only when Bane nodded did he regain his place. “Very well. Let’s begin.”


	6. Chapter 6

 

            Bane slept late the next morning, having stayed up past his usual hour, carving the chess pieces, and thus he did not accompany the doctor on his rounds. He did not mind, though, for he looked forward to resuming his work with the Vulture. Yet by the time he returned from the stepwell after his daily ablutions, the Vulture was nowhere in sight.

            “Boy,” Abrams beckoned quietly from the next cell.

            Surprised to hear the man speak, Bane set Osito down on his charpoy and turned to face him, but he did not move closer to the bars.

            Abrams’s gray gaze flicked along the corridor as if in search of someone then returned to Bane. He had a broad, rugged face, and wore a close-cropped, patchy beard. His speech was slightly influenced by a cleft lip. When he spoke from his charpoy again, Bane had to strain to hear.

            “Don’t trust that Vulture, boy.”

            The dark undertone in his words pulled Bane warily toward him as he recalled his fear from last night. “Why not?”

            “For the same reason you shouldn’t trust no one here. You want to survive, don’t you?”

            “Of course.”

            “Best to keep yourself to yourself.”

            “Like you?” The question slipped past his lips with a touch of sarcasm, for he found himself resenting the man’s intrusion.

            Abrams simply stared back.

            “I can take care of myself,” Bane insisted.

            “Perhaps…if you keep yourself locked up in your cell. But you can’t be like your mother, can you? No, you’re too young to stay caged…and young enough to be ignorant.”

            “Why do you care?”

            Abrams seemed to consider for a moment before he shrugged.

            “I can take care of myself,” Bane repeated, turning his back on Abrams, his gaze resting on Osito.

            “I know about your knife, boy.”

            Bane froze, eyes widening, breath halting.

            “Don’t worry; I haven’t told no one. But the Vulture suspects; you know he does. Why do you think he wants you to leave your bear behind when you’re around him? He thinks you’ll pull that knife on him if he gives you reason to.”

            Bane’s first concern was that if the Vulture did not trust him then he might not be allowed to help with the chess set and be taught the game. So intent was he on this potential dilemma that he did not consider all that Abrams was trying to impart. Of course, he could do as the Vulture said and forsake Osito at least when he was with the man, yet his mother’s concerns for his safety clung tenaciously to him. After all, concealing a knife inside Osito had been her idea, for she had feared for his well-being every time he set foot beyond their bars. If he openly carried the knife, any one of the prisoners could easily snatch it from a mere boy, but with the blade hidden beneath one of Osito’s seams—opened, yet cleverly camouflaged—Bane could carry the weapon with him in the guise of a toy and draw it in an instant. Thankfully he had not yet been tested.

            He pulled from his thoughts to find Abrams still staring at him, expectant. Bane gathered himself and spoke with false assuredness, “I don’t have a knife.”

            Abrams eyebrows knit into a momentary frown, then his expression cleared and he chuckled. “Right.” He cast Bane a cunning glance then lay back on his charpoy, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Just remember what I said about the Vulture, boy.”

            The rest of the day Bane puzzled Abrams’s warning as he and the Vulture worked diligently on the chess set. Abrams’s words were not as remarkable as the simple fact that the man had spoken to him at all. Why now? Did Abrams’s solicitude have something to do with his mother’s passing? But why would that matter? The reticent prisoner had certainly been no great friend to either of them.

            While Bane carved and painted the black chess pieces with a small blade borrowed from the doctor, the Vulture worked on the board, scoring out precise squares, sanding them with a scrap of worn sandpaper and painting them. They occasionally conversed, though most of the time they remained silent and intent on their tasks. Now and then prisoners who passed by would stop to observe, some asking questions, others silent, some tossing insults their way, remarking that if they got their hands on the chess set it would make fine kindling. The Vulture ignored them, eyes furtive and avoiding, while Bane shot the more unpleasant visitors a baleful glance to discourage them.

            The Vulture’s lavish praise of Bane’s workmanship brought a smile to the boy’s face for the first time since his mother’s death. Though he could easily see that his skill was far below that of the Vulture’s, he appreciated the man’s attempt to smooth over the previous evening’s roughness with those glowing remarks. The Vulture never made any attempt to be physically close to him, nor did he even look at Osito there on the charpoy next to Bane. Bane almost felt ashamed of his own behavior of last night. Maybe he had over-reacted. Perhaps Abrams’s words of caution had been born out of envy for his new-found camaraderie, not out of true apprehension for him.

            That night, though, Abrams’s warning kept Bane awake in his cell long after the Vulture had lapsed into deep snores. He stared upward in the blackness, a blackness so complete that it seemed to have a tactile quality, like a heavy blanket, far outweighing the actual blankets covering him. While he wanted to show the Vulture gratitude for allowing him to help with the chess set, something that would encourage trust and continued companionship without compromising his own safety, he knew he could not give up Osito; that much was certain. Yet perhaps he could make the bear’s presence less threatening; perhaps he could convince the Vulture that the knife was nothing more than a figment of his paranoid imagination.

            He hugged the toy close, thought of the Vulture’s admonitions against Osito’s continued existence. True enough, one day—as a man—he would have to forsake the bear. He would have to find other ways to protect himself. But as his mother’s faint scent twitched his nostrils and comforted him, he thought, _Not yet. Not tonight_.


	7. Chapter 7

            The following morning, when Bane went to the stepwell, he took with him a needle and thread. Once he was through washing, he clambered up to one of the highest steps and settled there with Osito on his lap. Sluggish prisoners emerged from the shadowy corridors into the weak morning light that somehow struggled its way to the bottom of the shaft. They joined those already at the well, some exchanging muted words, others silent and solitary. None came too near Bane as they descended the mosaic of steps, weaving first down one direction then down the opposite, back and forth until they reached the water.

            The pale light brightened the pool and reflected Bane’s face back up at him when he leaned forward. Sometimes, when he saw himself thus, he stared at his image at great length, wondering if he was really seeing himself or someone else. He was unsure why he pondered such a thing, for whom else could it be but his own likeness looking up at him? In the pool, his dark blue eyes appeared brown. True enough his eyes did have flecks of brown…from his father. The rest of his appearance belonged to his mother: full lips above a slightly tapered chin, a straight nose—perhaps a touch long—arched eyebrows, a sloping, expressive forehead, already prone to faint furrows. The tips of his ears stuck out just enough to elicit occasional taunts or periodic harsh tweaks from other prisoners; if there was one thing about his appearance that he would change it would be his ears, but once he was free of the prison he could let his hair grow out to cover them instead of keeping it cropped for the practicality of discouraging lice. And for now at least there was the _shemagh_ that covered all but his face during most of his waking hours, a garment that kept the creeping of chilled air from the back of his neck and helped shield his emotions from others who might seek to exploit illustrated weakness.

            Now he removed his _shemagh_ and shirt and pulled out his mother’s needle and thread. With his garments concealing Osito, he slowly slipped his fingers inside the stuffed toy and withdrew the knife hidden there. At his waistband was a crude leather sheath that had been covered by his long shirt, and he now tucked the knife there, his movements masked by the clothing. Then, maintaining an appearance of mending his shirt, he instead quickly sewed Osito’s open seam closed.

            He hurried back to his cell. The Vulture was still asleep, his back to Bane, his snores quiet. Fortunately Abrams was gone. Bane quickly put the needle and thread in a small wooden box kept beneath his charpoy, then—keeping a wary eye on the Vulture in case he awoke—he placed Osito on the floor between his charpoy and the bars that separated their cells. An easy reach for the man should he feel so inclined. Bane rumpled up his blankets to portray haste in his departure. Then, briefly touching the knife in its sheath under his shirt, he hurried off to accompany the doctor on his rounds.

            When he returned two hours later, the Vulture was awake and frowsy, sitting at the low table in the center of the cell, bent over his work on the chess board, his back to Bane’s cell. Osito lay where Bane had placed him, though when he drew closer to his charpoy, he noticed that the bear was not quite at the same angle as when he had left him.

            “Osito,” he said with an emphatic, scolding tone, “there you are. I was afraid I’d left you on the steps.”

            As Bane spoke, the Vulture surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder, then his narrow eyes flicked urgently back to his work. The man’s shoulders bunched up as if to fend off a cold breeze.

            “Are you going to help me, boy? Or are you going to waste your time reading today?”

            With a brief, private smile at Osito, Bane assured the Vulture of his desire to finish the chess pieces. As he left his cell, Osito in one hand, the doctor’s borrowed blade in the other, Abrams came down the corridor. The man’s gaze touched upon Osito then lifted to Bane. Bane had never seen the man genuinely smile before, so when Abrams’s lips spread momentarily, revealing a hint of yellowed teeth, Bane stopped in his tracks. As Abrams passed into his own cell, the Vulture studied Bane curiously while he stood to unlock the door. Bane remembered himself and offered the Vulture a smile that he hoped was convincing.

            As they worked, the Vulture seemed more at ease than on the previous day, solidifying Bane’s belief that the man had taken the bait and examined Osito in an attempt to prove his conjectures about a hidden weapon. If Abrams was right and the Vulture had some nefarious scheme to harm him, would not this revelation of vulnerability cause the man to act? Or would he wait? Why would he have any reason or desire to hurt him, though? Was he not one of the few in the prison who would even associate with the Vulture? Surely the man would not want to be completely isolated socially. After all, the Vulture seemed to enjoy his company while they worked, becoming more talkative today, babbling on about his life before the pit.

            “If you were free,” Bane asked, “what would you do? Would you go back to your old life?”

            The Vulture cackled. “My old life is what landed me here. I’d be a damned fool to repeat my mistakes.” Then he sobered, his thin nose wrinkling. “Well, at least not in the same region.”

            The Vulture had been a merchant in a small village near the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan, but he had sold more than trinkets and pottery. He had been a dealer of information, selling his verbal wares to the highest bidder. Origin of the buyer mattered not. One day he would offer rumors to the Pakistanis about Russian troop movements just over the border, and then the next day he would whisper to a Russian agent about local Pakistanis cooperating with the _mujah_ _ideen_.

            “I was good, boy. No one could play it both ways like I did, especially for so many years,” the Vulture had told him long ago. “I’d set back thousands of dollars. I just needed one last deal with the Russians. It was all set—the money and my way out of there, to America. Those bastards had agreed to arrange an extraction if my last tale panned out for them.” He sighed dramatically.

            “So what happened?” Bane had asked with the eagerness of any child at the knee of a grand storyteller.

            The Vulture shrugged, appearing suddenly tired and worn. “Someone sold me out. Pakistani troops came the night I was supposed to leave. Those whoresons tortured me for at least two weeks. I couldn’t tell day from night then, but after I passed out for the last time—probably for days—I woke up here.”

            Now Bane watched the Vulture’s hands work upon the chess board. They were old hands—aged beyond his years because of what the Pakistanis had done to them. Many of the broken fingers had not mended properly, deviating from straightness, the joints often swollen and painful, especially in the colder months.

            “If you were free,” Bane resumed his line of questioning, “where would you go? To America still?”

            The Vulture fixed a glistening eye on him, chewed on his thin lower lip, seemed to momentarily be far away, perhaps with his torturers again, those memories that often caused him to wake, screaming, in the night. “Don’t be a fool, boy. This talk of freedom, escape…always escape. Don’t you realize you’re poisoning yourself and anyone else who hears you?”

            Bane blinked in surprise at the sudden venom in the man’s voice.

            “Hope,” the Vulture sneered. “Poison down here. Like a cloak wrapped around you, snug and warm, but then the cloak turns into a snake that squeezes the life from you.” He shook his head, eyes hard upon his work, his movements now short and jagged. “I’ve heard you all this time, you know, with your mother. Going on and on about how you’ll escape.” He laughed mirthlessly, spittle gathering in the corners of his mouth, bubbling.

            Bane scowled at his skepticism, more angered than alarmed by the Vulture’s fervor. “I _will_ escape one day, when I’m bigger and stronger.”

            “Ha! Say you make the climb, foolish pup, then what? You a bastard and an orphan.”

            “I’m not an orphan; I’d find my father.”

            “You’ve heard what the doctor’s said about the man who put your mother down here. If he finds out about you, you’re as good as dead. Better off down here…at least you’re alive.”

            “Who says he’ll find out?”

            The Vulture laughed coldly. “Oh, you are a dreamer, ain’t you, boy? Powerful men have ways of knowing what they need to know.”

            “Then why doesn’t he know about me already?”

            “Maybe he does.”

            Bane faltered, experienced a prick of panic, but regained his stubborn expression. “Then wouldn’t I be dead?”

            “Maybe he thinks—and rightly so—that this place is worse than death for you. Like those bastards who tortured me. Draw things out, make the agony linger on and on. Punish you for your mother’s sins for all eternity, or at least what feels like eternity, you with a whole lifetime of years ahead of you.”

            Bane ground his teeth together as he glowered at the rook in his hand. His knife cut too deeply into the piece, nearly ruined it with one stroke. “I will escape…and I’ll find my father.”

            The Vulture clucked his tongue and shook his head. “I’ll play along with your fiction, just this once, and I’ll tell you it’s not your father you need to find first but that fucker who put your mother down here with you in her belly. You find him and you kill him.” The Vulture pointed his knife at Bane. “Then maybe you’ll be truly free.”

            Bane stared at him. Whenever fantasizing about escape, he had never considered his condemner. Instead he had focused only upon finding his father.

            “My father will protect me.”

            “Like he protected your mother?”

            “Mother said he didn’t know what had been done to her. He was told she was dead. That way he’d never try to find her.”

            “Well, then, that’s the truth of it now, isn’t it?” The Vulture grinned crooked teeth. “She’s dead and buried, and you’re just as good as buried, eh?”

            In a flash of frustration and grief, Bane threw down the unfinished rook and jumped to his feet. Of course he and Osito did not get far, for the door was locked from the inside, and the Vulture held the key.

            “Let me out,” he demanded, trying his best to keep the tremor of emotion from his voice.

            Although the Vulture did not move from his work, he used a conciliatory tone, “No need to run, boy. I’ll stop talking now, as long as you stop talking your nonsense about escape.”

            “No. Let me out, damn you.”

            The Vulture sighed in irritation and eyed him, his glance cutting down upon Osito.

            “Let him out.” Abrams’s rumbling voice turned both of them.

            The Vulture considered the man, hesitated, looked away from Abrams’s lethal stare, studied Bane with an odd intensity that stirred Bane’s unease. At last the Vulture sighed again as if greatly aggrieved and shuffled forward with the key. Before he unlocked the door, he again fixed his gaze upon Bane and said, “You think hope makes you strong. But it’s hope that will destroy you.”

            A wave of furious heat swelled Bane’s chest and tightened his hands upon Osito and the doctor’s blade. As the Vulture opened the door with an irritating, controlled lack of speed, Bane pushed his way out and ran down the corridor.


	8. Chapter 8

            There was no place in the prison in which to seek refuge or solitude. Only the stepwell offered any solace now that Bane’s mother was gone. After pacing off his aggravation in the corridors for a time—never going too deep into the bowels or remaining for long among the restless population—he trudged to the stepwell, again retreating to the highest level. There he sat and stared upward at the sky, that small disk of blinding white tinged with blue. What would it be like to see the entire sky, from horizon to horizon, as his mother had described it? To better see clouds and their varied shapes? To watch birds wheeling high above, soaring on the wind? Wind…what would it feel like, air that moved? Perhaps soothing, so unlike the stealthy, sly, cold breath of the pit.

            Was the Vulture right? Should he not even turn his eyes upward? Should he forsake his dreams of freedom, especially now that his mother was dead? Perhaps to hope was indeed to despair. But, with one last, resolute look to the heavens, he set his jaw and rejected the Vulture’s words. He would not disappoint his mother. He would find the man whom she had loved, for whom she had ultimately sacrificed her life, and he would tell him about her, about how she had never stopped thinking about him, loving him, loving him so much that Bane could not help but love him, too.

            When he thought again of the Vulture’s disparaging comments, he turned his anger away from the bitter prisoner and instead directed it toward the one who had condemned his mother. The Vulture was right about one thing—he needed to find that man once he was free, to keep him from coming between him and his father. He should be made to pay for what he had done, for murdering _her_ , for surely his sentence had killed her as much as the pneumonia. But…Bane wondered if he could kill another man. He was only a boy, no matter how much the Vulture insisted otherwise.

            As he pondered the unsettling prospect of murder, his gaze drifted over the few prisoners spread around the stepwell. His attention came to rest upon a familiar, particularly burly prisoner known as Hans. Bane had no idea what the man’s true name was; he was German, so everyone simply called him Hans. Shirtless, he crouched at the edge of the pool, dipped his cupped hands, and splashed water onto his face. His tattooed skin shone with sweat even in the dimness, his muscles rippling with his movements. No doubt the sheen of perspiration was from his daily workout regimen, a religiously adhered to routine. Graceful for a big man, fastidious. He was the pit’s undefeated champion when it came to brawling. But Hans did not lord his status over the others. He had no need. He was respected not only for his physical strength but for his quiet leadership when needed. It was Hans who always manned the tackle fall whenever someone dared climb the shaft. Bane admired the man’s brute power, wagered that Hans feared nothing and no one.

            With an envious frown, Bane forced his focus to Osito lying mute in his lap, black button eyes staring up at the distant sky as if he, too, wished to defy the Vulture and flee the pit. Removing his _shemagh_ , Bane draped it over Osito as he had the other day. Since he did not have his needle, he used the doctor’s small blade, weaving the tip into one stitch after another, undoing the work he had so carefully crafted. Soon the seam lay open again, and he stealthily removed his own knife from its hidden sheath and slipped it into Osito’s back.

            Draping the _shemagh_ over his head, he remained there, his gaze returning to Hans who stood now, tall and solid, shrugging into his loose tunic. Another prisoner on the opposite side of the pool said something to him, and both laughed, the sound bouncing around the gray shaft, such a foreign, incongruous music in this hellish place.

            Without warning, someone snatched Osito from his hands. Bane jumped to his feet, reaching to reclaim the bear from the man—Greyson. But the prisoner held the toy high, far out of Bane’s reach while backing along the ledge at the top of the steps, grinning wolfishly.

            “Give him back!”

            Greyson laughed, callous and ringing. “Why? Can’t live without him now that your mother’s _dead_?”

            Bane lunged at him again, but the man twisted out of reach. With his right hand Greyson held Osito outward over the distant pool.

            “Seems a bit musty to me. A good dunking might do him good.”

            Bane did not fear Osito’s fall into the water; what he feared was not retrieving him before someone else might lay hands on him and feel the knife beneath the fabric, if Greyson did not do so first. Fortunately the man gripped Osito by the neck.

            “Greyson!” a voice roared from below, but the American ignored his name.

            Other prisoners lounging about the steps got to their feet to watch Bane’s torment.

            “C’mon, boy,” Greyson taunted. “Maybe instead of dropping him I’ll use him for my fire. Running low on fuel, you see.”

            Remembering the doctor’s scalpel, Bane pulled it from the sheath at his waistband in one quick move and slashed it toward Greyson’s belly. Though surprised enough to lose his grin, the American avoided the blow.

            “What have we here?” He snatched for the blade with his other hand, but Bane dropped beneath his swipe then drove forward. Just before the scalpel could reach his stomach, Greyson’s elbow cracked against Bane’s temple, staggered him backward. Instinctively Bane’s free hand reached out for something to balance against but found only the open air of the shaft. He would have fallen if Greyson had not grabbed his right wrist in an effort to steal the blade.

            “Greyson, _Gott_ damn it—” Hans’s heavily accented voice again, booming up from below, sounding closer than before.

            Greyson’s eyes flashed downward along the steps. He gave Bane one last smirk then dropped Osito. Bane gasped, struggled to break free.

            “Let me go!”

            “Drop that blade, boy.”

            With one quick glance at Osito striking the surface of the pool, sending a ring of ripples coursing outward, Bane swallowed his pride and dropped the scalpel. Greyson grinned in triumph and released him. Bane whirled and bolted toward the pool. One staircase over, Hans charged up the steps three at a time, blazing stare fixed on Greyson. But Bane knew Greyson would not linger long enough for Hans to reach him and mete out justice. No doubt he was already racing for the shadows with his prize.

            One prisoner had started to wade into the water to retrieve Osito. Bane leapt from the last level to the pool, shouting, “No!” The sharpness of his command surprised the man to a halt, and Bane plowed forward, reaching so hastily for Osito that he lost his balance and fell into the toy, sending both of them below the surface. Fearing what the other prisoner might do, Bane struggled to his feet, Osito held against his chest with one arm, his other hand scrabbling at the surface of the water as if he could secure a purchase to help propel him.

            By the time Bane climbed, gasping, out of the pool, Hans was on his way back down, his clean-shaven face stormy. Greyson was gone, but Bane heard shouts in one of the corridors and noticed that a couple of the men who had been at the stepwell were now gone. He hoped they had left to thrash the American, but more likely they sought the doctor’s blade; not to return it to him or the doctor, of course, but to keep it for themselves to use or trade.

            His soaked form already shivered, the stony environment stealing his warmth, his ragged clothes allowing the cold to stick to him and penetrate his very bones.

            The other prisoner waded out of the pool near him but did not attempt to approach. Instead he asked, “You all right, boy?”

            Teeth chattering, Bane nodded, hugging Osito with both arms.

            Hans came to him, frowning. “You need to get dry. Do you have fuel for a fire?”

            Bane shook his head.

            “Very well. Come to my cell.”

            Bane hesitated.

            “Or maybe you prefer the doctor’s cell?”

            Not wanting Hans to think him afraid and not wanting to face the doctor right now after losing his precious scalpel, Bane silently followed him.


	9. Chapter 9

>  

            Hans led Bane to a cell just off the stepwell, two levels below his own cell. Although Bane had walked past these bars countless times, he had never entered. Inside, the space was neat and orderly—a charpoy, a small table with one chair, a crude piece of furniture with storage drawers against the back wall, and various free weights grouped together opposite the charpoy. Every day, for as long as Bane could remember, Hans used the battered equipment to maintain his formidable mass.

            “Here,” Hans gestured, “sit on the cot and take off your clothes. Wrap yourself in this blanket.”

            As Bane obeyed with shivering fingers, Hans started a fire in the nearby earthen brazier. Then he took Bane’s clothes, wrung them out with his powerful hands, and hung them on the bars closest to the brazier. He turned back to Bane, who was now wrapped tightly in the thin blanket and trembling less, and pointed at Osito.

            “If you would like, I can set him on top of the brazier so he can dry as well.”

            Instinctively wary, Bane hesitated, but when Hans offered a smile of encouragement, Bane allowed himself to relax and nodded his assent. With amazing care, the big man settled Osito face down on the brazier, the toy’s stubby limbs keeping the body from resting directly on the surface of the brazier, a flat area on which food could be cooked. Then Hans sat at the table.

            “Did that bastard take something from you?”

            “Yes. One of Doctor Assad’s scalpels. He’d loaned it to me.”

            Hans nodded, his gray eyes suddenly amused. “For carving the chess pieces.”

            “Yes.” Bane scowled slightly, afraid the man was mocking his latest pastime as so many other prisoners had done.

            “Assad’s little blade isn’t worth getting killed over. Better off letting them have what they want…for now, until you’re old enough to fight for it.”

            Bane drew his bare feet onto the charpoy, folding his legs and hugging them to his chest under the blanket. He nodded toward the weights. “Maybe you could show me how to use those…so I can be stronger.”

            A grin brightened Hans’s chiseled features. “Those are too much for a boy like you. More likely you would hurt yourself.” Just as Bane began to bristle at the remark, Hans continued, “There are other things you can do until you’re big enough to use the weights.”

            “What?”

            “Push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups. Then there are the stairs; run them instead of just sitting on them, staring up at the sky.” He winked.

            “When can I use the weights?”

            “We shall see.” He raised a warning finger. “But…everything comes with a price here, _ja_? You use my weights, what do I get in trade?”

            Bane frowned. “What would you want?”

            Hans pondered, one meaty hand slowly stroking his chin. At last he said, “Maybe your chess set. Not to keep, but just to play a game or two.”

            “You play chess?”

            Hans nodded. “When I was a boy.”

            “But the chess set isn’t mine; it’s the Vulture’s.”

            “For now.”

            Bane could tell by the sudden stony quality of Hans’s expression that he would not expound upon his intimation, so Bane simply agreed that when the time came for him to use the weights, he would see what he could do to acquire the chess set for his use.

            He stayed with Hans for some time, polishing up on some of the German that he had learned a couple of months ago. At some point the warmth from the brazier worked through the blanket and lulled him into a doze. He awoke some time later, lying on the charpoy, as warm as he could possibly be in this perpetually clammy and chilled place.

            “Your clothes are still damp,” Hans said as he handed them back, “so when you get to your cell, take them off again until they are drier, _ja_?”

            Bane thanked him, gathered up Osito, and returned to his cell.

            The Vulture was as he had left him, hunched over the nearly-finished chess board. The man was rubbing soot into some of the squares to contrast with the natural wood squares, for the black paint had been claimed by the chess pieces.

            “So,” the Vulture grunted, “you done being mad at me?”

            “No,” Bane growled, internally blaming the Vulture for the loss of the doctor’s scalpel since it was the Vulture’s cruel behavior that had driven him to the stepwell.

            “Heard a ruckus from out there,” the Vulture nodded toward the shaft. “Get yourself in trouble, did you?”

            “No.”

            The Vulture gave a low, wry laugh. “Then why’s your bear all wet?”

            True enough, Osito had not dried as quickly as the clothing. Bane did not respond, however, and instead set Osito on top of his impotent brazier. He worried that the doctor might see him punished for losing the blade, perhaps by having his fuel allotment taken from him.

            “Should have stayed here with me, boy. Saved yourself a wet bear and wet clothes. Don’t want to catch your death of cold like your dear mother, eh?”

            Bane scowled and began to undress. He hung the garments on the bars joining his cell with Abrams’s, for the man was gone. Never would he dare to hang anything on the front bars, for someone would steal whatever was there, nor did he want to display any sort of trust to the Vulture by hanging the wet clothes on his side.

            When Bane turned toward the charpoy to gather a blanket, he found the Vulture’s gaze upon him. As if struck by a fist, Bane halted, his breath caught in his throat. For a moment he stood frozen, paralyzed by the awful gleam in the Vulture’s eyes, a stare that did not meet his but instead had locked upon Bane’s naked body, sliding downward, lingering…

            Breaking from the spell, Bane snatched up a blanket in which to cloak himself. This broke the Vulture’s distracted concentration, and the man quickly avoided Bane’s eyes, a nervous tongue darting across his lips as he bent low over his work again. But when Bane sat on his charpoy with his back to the Vulture, he swore that the man’s gaze returned to him, and he fought his protective impulse to face him. He shivered within himself, knew it was not from the cold.

            In vain he tried to understand the alarm that the Vulture’s perusal had stirred. Why had the man looked at him in such a strange, predatory way? Oddly enough it reminded Bane of the way other prisoners used to look at his mother, that nearly-salivating, debasing way that made Bane want to claw their eyes out. Though just a boy, he had been old enough for his mother to explain the animal act of procreation, but she had stressed the difference between base sexual desire and the desire of the flesh born of love.

            “When you’re free of this place,” she had said in her soft London tones, “you must show yourself a better man than what lives down here. In all ways. You must be master of your mind as well as your body.”

            Bane kept his back to the Vulture as he curled up beneath his blankets. His charpoy—like every charpoy in the prison except those improved by the prisoners themselves through barter and skill—had no mattress but was made of a simple low wooden frame with woven, crisscrossing ropes on which to lie. Bane always put his oldest blanket across the weave in a futile attempt to combat the chill rising up from the stone floor. Thinking about the Vulture’s disturbing examination, Bane tightly closed his eyes and tried to see his mother’s eyes instead, but for a long time—until he drifted to sleep—all he could see was the eerie light that had sparked in the Vulture’s eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

 

            By the time Bane awoke, his clothes had dried, and the vague light from the shaft had nearly been swallowed by the approach of night. Warily he rolled onto his back to look for the Vulture, but the man’s cell was empty, the chess board under his charpoy. The drawstring canvas bag that contained the pieces lay on top of the board. He frowned at the thought of never getting to learn the game.

            Finally he forced himself to get dressed and go to Doctor Assad’s cell, but the doctor was not there. Relieved, Bane almost allowed himself to return to his cell, but in the end he waited for the man.

            “Well, my boy,” Assad said with a small smile when he arrived, “what’s so important that you stand here without your shoes?”

            His footwear could not truly be considered shoes; they lacked a hard sole—a simple construction of leather hand-sewn by his mother. Endless growth spurts drove him to scrounge constantly for material with which to replace each pair with an ever-larger version.

            “They’re still damp,” Bane mumbled.

            “Ah, yes. Your baptismal submersion today.” He chuckled as he unlocked his door and motioned Bane inside. “I heard about it.”

            The heat of mortification inflamed Bane’s cheeks.

            “I also heard you tried to gut Greyson with my scalpel.”

            Bane stared at the cold brazier to which the doctor added charcoal. Quietly Bane said, “He took it from me,” as he sat on the mat in front of the brazier, eyes greedy upon the charcoal, urging it to ignite and take the chill from his feet. “I’m sorry.”

            The doctor grunted enigmatically, his lack of reaction troubling Bane for fear of punishment. Assad put all of his concentration into coaxing the charcoal to life, leaving Bane to twist with dread. Several torturous minutes later the doctor finally spoke.

            “You should have left the scalpel in your cell.”

            Bane started to explain that he had needed the blade to open Osito’s seam, but he caught himself and swallowed the revelation, instead murmuring, “I know.”

            “You’re lucky Greyson dropped Osito and not you.” The doctor appeared worn when he went to sit on his charpoy. “You should spend less time in the stepwell.”

            “I’m not afraid of them.” Of course, this was not completely true, but he was unwilling to admit otherwise, to himself or the doctor.

            “You should be.”

            “Hans is going to show me how to become stronger.”

            “A boy cannot have a man’s strength, no matter how many push-ups you do, Bane.”

            Bane fell silent. He did not want to hear of more things that he supposedly could _not_ do.

            “Don’t worry about the blade. You help me enough to have earned my forgiveness for one foolish moment. But,” he raised a rebuking finger, “I cannot give you another. Besides, it would appear your chess set is finished anyway, yes?”

            Bane frowned. “I guess.”

            The doctor cocked an eyebrow. “Lost interest already?”

            “No.” Bane shrugged, not wanting to discuss the chess set, hoping his cryptic response was enough to get his point across. Almost frantically he searched for an alternative subject to discuss and found himself sharing what the Vulture had said to him about the man responsible for his mother’s imprisonment.

            The doctor, however, did not look any more pleased with this topic than he had about Bane’s imprudence in the stepwell, yet Bane pressed onward.

            “Mother would never tell me his name. She said she would tell me when I was grown. But now she’s gone.” He watched the doctor’s expression closely and saw the reaction that he had suspected he would see. “You know his name, don’t you?”

            “I’ve never spoken it to you,” Assad said almost defensively.

            “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you don’t know it. Mother told you not to tell me, didn’t she?”

            “She didn’t want you to know because she feared you would try to find him, and that if you did so as a boy you would stand even less chance of survival than if you were an adult.”

            “So you do know?”

            Assad paced across the cell, stared into the adjoining cell, its inmate currently absent. “Whether I know it or not—”

            “You must know it; you told me he’s alive.”

            “I can be told of a particular man being alive without knowing his name.”

            “I don’t believe you.” Bane stood, his fists clenched as he remembered the Vulture’s baiting words from earlier.

            Assad turned, the skin over his cheekbones tight with sudden tension. “Go back to your cell, Bane.”

            “Why won’t you tell me? My mother is dead—”

            “I’ve told you why; it’s too dangerous.”

            “You’re afraid to tell me because you think I can make the climb.” The trace of a triumphant smile curled the corners of Bane’s lips. “That I can find him.”

            Assad’s eyes caught the early flare of the charcoal. “I am afraid that you are foolish enough to try the climb. And if the climb does not kill you then your search for that man will. I can’t stop you from the one, but I can keep you from the other.”

            Bane held his stare, his fists still balled. Assad’s stubbornness echoed the Vulture’s derision, brought it ringing into his head once again, and in sudden outrage he turned toward the door. Without another word, the doctor unlocked it, and Bane stalked out.


	11. Chapter 11

            When Bane awoke the next morning, the prison was oddly quiet, as if every man there still slept, though the vague gray of morning trickled down into the shaft and told of a new day. The Vulture, though, was not asleep. In fact, he was not in his cell at all. As usual, his charpoy was meticulously made, the thin pillow squared just so at the head, the blanket smooth and falling evenly over the sides.

            Bane sat up, his own blanket draped close around him to ward off the last of the night’s bone-penetrating cold. Then he realized the chess board sat on the Vulture’s low table, the pieces arranged in an orderly fashion, black arrayed like an army on one side and the natural pieces offering a mirror image on the opposite side. The finished product of his and the Vulture’s artistry brought a smile to his face and warmed him from within. His fingers itched to move the pieces, to understand their individual purpose through application, not simply through the oral instruction the Vulture had bestowed while they labored upon the set.

            When he headed for the stepwell, he left Osito behind, for the bear was still damp from yesterday. Last night he had removed the knife to keep it from rusting, secreting it beneath the ash in his brazier. He considered carrying the knife in his leather sheath but instead elected to leave it in the brazier, proudly remembering his insistence to the doctor that he was not afraid of those who visited the shaft.

            He found the Vulture at the stepwell, one of only three others there. Far above them, the unattainable heavens glimmered hazy pink. Bane crouched at the edge of the pool, purposefully keeping away from the Vulture but not as far away as his anger of yesterday should have dictated. For a moment he felt the Vulture’s attention upon him, but when Bane raised his eyes in a challenge, the man had already looked away.

            It was then that Bane noticed the small, square, pale object cupped in the palm of the Vulture’s left hand. The man had removed his tunic and now splashed water up his arms. The water slipped back into the pool, no longer clear but a milky color, tiny bubbles dripping from the Vulture’s finger tips. A pleasant, faint scent reached Bane’s nose. Soap! Where and how had the man acquired such a luxury?

            Bane’s question died in his throat when he saw another prisoner enter the shaft—a dark Arab with a scarred face and coal-black eyes. Ramzi. The prisoner descended with nearly silent steps. Bane was surprised to see him here so early, for Ramzi often stayed up late into the night, gambling as was his passion; he rarely lost at cards, dice, rat races, or cockroach races. He had one of the few decks of cards in the prison and charged handsomely for others to borrow it. He had once killed a man who had borrowed the deck and in turn tried to sell it to another prisoner.

            Reaching the floor of the stepwell, Ramzi’s hawk-like gaze took in the others at the pool. His defensive expression relaxed when he recognized no threat. Bane always avoided the man as much as possible, for Ramzi was a cruel brute who often preyed on weaker prisoners, though turned faint of heart whenever challenged by someone above him in the pit’s hierarchy, a cowardliness that made Bane revile him.

            Without being noticed Ramzi drifted up behind the Vulture. A crooked, crude grin glimmered from amidst his dark beard. Bane was about to warn the Vulture, but Ramzi shot him a lethal glance that strangled the words. Ramzi stopped just behind the Vulture and craned his neck to see over the smaller prisoner’s shoulder. The Arab’s eyes widened with avarice upon the bar of soap, and without warning he kicked the Vulture, nearly tumbling him into the pool. With the instinctive speed of one accustomed to such unexpected brutality, the Vulture got to his feet and backed away, his tunic left next to the pool.

            “Give it to me,” Ramzi spoke in Arabic.

            The Vulture had closed his hand around the diminished cake of soap and put it behind his back. “Give you what?”

            The other prisoners watched closely but remained unmoved, no doubt relieved that Ramzi’s focus was upon someone other than themselves. They hurried to finish their business at the pool.

            Ramzi stiff-armed the Vulture backward toward the near wall. The Vulture’s frantic eyes darted toward the closest steps, but before he could make a break for them, Ramzi grabbed the man by one ear and twisted. The Vulture gasped as Ramzi held out his other hand.

            “Now hand it over before I rip off both your ears, you worthless dog.”

            When the Vulture refused to obey, Ramzi’s knee came up with lightning speed. The Vulture howled in agony and crumpled to the stone pavement, his hands against his genitals. Amazingly the bar of soap remained in his grasp. Ramzi kicked him.

            “Drop it, damn you!”

            Bane yelled, “Leave him alone!”

            Ramzi ignored him. The kicks came in rapid succession, the Vulture balling up into a fetal position.

            Flinching with the latest blow, Bane got to his feet and shouted, “Give it to him, Vulture!”

            At last the man seemed to realize that he still gripped the soap, and it slowly fell from his grasp. But Ramzi kept kicking him, cursing him. When he bent to pick up the soap, he landed several blows to the Vulture’s head, spitting on him.

            Without thought, Bane charged, leapt onto Ramzi’s back, knocked him off balance. His small fists pummeled the back of Ramzi’s skull. As they tumbled together against the Vulture, Bane took hold of the Arab’s _shemagh_ and pulled it over his face, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck to hold the makeshift hood in place. The Vulture struggled to free himself from beneath them, shouting frantically.

            “Run!” Bane cried as he wrestled to keep Ramzi’s thrashing form blindfolded.

            The Vulture scrambled to his feet, staggering, dazed. Shouts echoed from above them. Ramzi’s oaths blurred into a continuous guttural snarl. The Vulture and the others at the pool fled up the stairs.

            Ramzi lurched to his feet, still unable to see, arms flailing in an attempt to grab Bane and pry him from his back. Gritting his teeth, Bane shifted his weight sideways, throwing Ramzi off balance again. The Arab’s head struck the wall, and he stumbled back. Using the disorienting moment, Bane shoved free of the man. As his feet touched down, he noticed the bar of soap lying where Ramzi had dropped it. With one swift swipe, Bane caught it up, snatched the Vulture’s tunic, and bolted for the nearest steps.

            He was up the first flight before Ramzi could start after him, roaring a stream of Arabic that flew so fast Bane could never have understood it even if he had tried. Bane took the steps two at a time—as many as his small strides allowed—and just reached the level of his own cell when he heard new voices shouting in the stepwell, Hans’s included. Bane did not look back but instead raced to his cell, his free hand grappling with the rawhide string around his neck that held his key.

            “Hurry, boy!” the Vulture called. “In here.”

            The Vulture held the door to his own cell just wide enough for Bane to slither through then slammed it shut and locked it. They stood next to one another away from the bars, lungs laboring, eyes wide as they awaited their pursuer. But no footfalls came their way and Ramzi’s voice remained in the shaft, all but drowned out by others, an incomprehensible, angry mix of languages. Bane could barely hear them over the rattle of his panting gasps and hammering heart.

            Seconds ticked away, and Bane slowly collected his wits, still clutching the tunic and slippery disk of soap. Soon the shouting died down. Ramzi did not appear; his cell lay on a lower level, so perhaps he had returned there.

            Bane exchanged a cautious glance with the Vulture. A cut above one of the man’s eyes trickled thick blood, and a puffy bruise on his left cheek had already turned deep purple. His arms were wrapped around himself as if his ribs ached, which Bane figured they most certainly did. But somehow through it all the Vulture mustered up a ghastly brown grin of survival and began to laugh…a small, half-hysterical wheezing sound before he caught himself.

            Bane handed him the tunic and revealed the remainder of the soap, slightly smashed by his unknowing grip. With his grin broadening, the Vulture clapped him on the back, pulling a relieved smile from Bane.

            “A brave boy, you are. Brave indeed. But then I already knew that, didn’t I?” The Vulture pulled the tunic over his head, smoothed his tousled crown of hair, and brushed the dirt from his pate. “And such bravery deserves a reward, don’t you think?”

            The man’s generosity surprised Bane, especially when the Vulture split what remained of the cake of soap and returned half of it to him, smiling that awful smile of his.

            “But,” the Vulture raised a crooked index finger, “this is not enough, is it?”

            Bane could not find the words to admit to the Vulture that he had merely reacted to a wicked injustice, not out of any affection or loyalty but simply because he hated Ramzi and all petty tyrants like him. Perhaps the words were unattainable because a part of him enjoyed the praise, having been bereft of any such thing since his mother’s death. Perhaps it was the loneliness, the desire to be befriended, even if by this wretch of a man, especially after their falling out of yesterday.

            “So,” the Vulture continued, appearing encouraged by Bane’s interested gaze, “I think it’s time I taught you the game.” With a grandiose sweep of one arm, which elicited a half-hidden wince, the Vulture turned to the waiting chess set. He raised inquiring eyebrows.

            “You should see the doctor,” Bane insisted, “get that cut taken care of.”

            The Vulture tsked and stepped to the back of his cell where an earthen pitcher sat. Setting aside the soap, he poured water into a wooden bowl, dabbed a rag into it, and wiped his brow. “It’s nearly stopped already. Besides,” he winked, “best if we lay low a while, eh? Those bars ain’t so bad on days like these, are they?”

            Bane did not expect to see Ramzi, especially if it had been Hans who had stopped his pursuit. No, men like Ramzi did not make any overt threat of retribution; they waited for moments like that afforded by the small, benign gathering at the pool that morning. But when next Bane stepped into the open, he would have Osito with him once again.

            The Vulture brought his pillow from the charpoy and set it on the floor next to the low table where the chess set awaited. Then he folded his single blanket and sat upon it at the opposite side of the table where the black pieces were arranged. He extended a hand of invitation toward the pillow, eyes bright once again, all fear gone. Bane hesitated, tried to conjure his anger and insult from yesterday but found he had no appetite for it. Instead he felt momentarily akin to this man, having survived the morning’s conflict together, feeling no small amount of pride in his accomplishment, especially when he considered the doctor’s remarks about his lack of strength. Perhaps it was not merely brute strength that could see a man through this place but sharp wits that told him when to act and when to refrain.

            Allowing a small grin of his own, Bane settled comfortably upon the pillow and touched the patiently waiting king.


	12. Chapter 12

            The game of chess fascinated Bane—the strategy, the careful planning, the vision required to anticipate an opponent’s moves. As with anything new that he took an interest in, he became proficient through acute focus and relentless practice, so relentless that the Vulture soon tired of his constant desire to play. Or perhaps what he truly tired of was Bane’s ability to beat him consistently after less than two months’ time.

            When he was not playing chess or helping the doctor, Bane spent time every day exercising under Hans’s tutelage. Besides repetitions of pull-ups, sit-ups, squats, and push-ups, Bane ran the stairs in the stepwell, often drawing complaints or dodging blows from those trying to use the steps during his measured dashes.

            All these things helped chip away at the pain left by his mother’s death. He was able to sleep through the night again, troubled by nightmares less and less. It was not that he thought infrequently of her—indeed she was always there in his thoughts and dreams—but he was able to better control _how_ he thought of her. If the sadness of her last days weighed upon him, he forced himself to instead think of a pleasant memory, of her smile or laughter or her stories of his father or the wonders of the world beyond the pit. Sometimes, if he did awaken deep in the night, cold and inexplicably afraid, he imagined her near in the darkness; he even thought he could hear her breathing. He would hold Osito tightly, trying to find her scent still upon the fabric, but since the bear’s fall into the pool her comforting fragrance was all but lost.

            He continued to keep Osito close whenever he left his cell except for when he would run the steps. When he took him into the Vulture’s cell, the man paid little heed to the toy and rarely dropped any disparaging remarks about Bane’s continued practice of carrying him. In fact, since Bane had come to his aid in the stepwell, the Vulture had never again berated him for his hopes to one day escape the pit. Bane did not try to fool himself into believing that the Vulture had somehow discovered new-found faith in his plans. No, he knew more than likely the Vulture simply refrained from discouraging him out of fear of losing him as an ally. Since foiling Ramzi, Bane noticed that if the Vulture visited the stepwell he came at the same time that he was there, always slipping in after Bane’s arrival as if hoping his shadowing was not noticed.

            Although Bane spent many hours with the Vulture, he did not allow himself to lower his guard. If he found himself doing so, all he needed to remind him to be cautious was a knowing glance from Abrams or one of those disconcerting, mysterious looks from the Vulture when he thought Bane was not aware of his perusal.

            “We might think of sharing cells,” the Vulture suggested one evening as he used the last of his most recent allotment of charcoal in his brazier. “At least at night. That way we only need fuel for one fire. So our supplies will last twice as long.” He glanced over his shoulder with veiled optimism…and that disturbing light in his small eyes that made Bane shiver and draw within himself. “Might even bunk together, like you and your mother did—twice the body heat, twice the blankets, eh?”

            Bane stared at the chess pieces before him, unsure how to answer such remarks. While the Vulture certainly had valid points about pooling their resources, Bane’s innate wariness caused him to hesitate. The light died out of the Vulture’s eyes, and the man turned away from him as if wounded, bunching his shoulders as he often did when defensive. Bane’s conscience niggled at him, and he could not help but wonder if this had been the response for which the Vulture had hoped. With a glance at Osito seated next to him on the floor, Bane remembered the old Serb once warning him that having a conscience in prison was a luxury he could not afford if he wanted to remain sane.

            “I dunno,” he mumbled at last.

            By the time the Vulture turned away from the brazier, he had hidden his disappointment behind a sly smile. “Well, then perhaps there is another solution to acquiring more of what I… _we_ need.” He settled onto his folded blanket on the floor and contemplated his next move in their latest chess match, his black king being dangerously near checkmate again. “Since I’ve become little more than an intellectual sparring partner for you, I suggest we find more challenging players, opponents who will be willing to wager on their skills.”

            Bane blinked at him in surprise. “But I haven’t been playing that long.”

            “I have faith in you, boy.”

            Though the remark stroked Bane’s ego, he was not convinced. “But what if I lose? And, besides, what do we have for stakes?”

            “The same as anyone else—fuel for our fires, food, books, the use of the chess set, any trifles we have among our things; sewing, washing, or any other services we might perform.”

            Bane frowned at the possibility that his lack of experience and skill could lead to the diminishing of his meager possessions as well as those of the Vulture.

            “Come now, boy. Where’s your sense of adventure? You’ve demoralized me with your skills. Soon there will be little point in us playing. Then you’ll be looking for fresh blood. Why not make the game more interesting with friendly wagering and at the same time make our lives a bit more…tolerable?”

            “ _If_ I win.”

            The Vulture smiled and touched Bane’s hand where it rested near one side of the board. “Not _if_ , dear boy, but _when_.”

#

            “Did you agree to this, Bane?” Hans asked.

            Confused, Bane looked from Hans to the Vulture, who dropped his gaze, his eyes shifting between his feet and the door as if to bolt. They had just arrived at the German’s cell at the appointed time for Bane’s first chess match.

            Hans gestured with disdain at the Vulture. “This hairless old jackal isn’t coercing you in some way, is he?”

            Bane quickly insisted, “I agreed to it; I get half of our winnings.”

            “Half of ‘ _our_ ’ winnings?” Hans snorted, peering down his crooked nose at the Vulture who had inched closer to the door, now shifting from foot to foot. “ _You_ are playing the game; if you were to win, although not a likely prospect,” he said without conceit, “you should receive more than half.”

            Clutching the chess board to his reedy chest like a shield, the Vulture narrowed his eyes more than usual and spoke in an insulted tone, “The board and pieces are mine. What good is the boy’s skill without the tools, eh?”

            Bane had already carefully considered the agreement he and the Vulture had shook hands upon and figured that he could always renegotiate later if he proved as successful as the Vulture envisioned. But until then he would not add any undue pressure on himself by asserting a superiority that had yet to be proven.

            Hans gave the Vulture one last disparaging glance before waving at him to close the cell door. When the Vulture remained inside, the big German raised his faint, blond eyebrows in surprise.

            “The boy doesn’t need you here.”

            The Vulture gave a sharp laugh. “Think me a fool? I’m here to see to it that you come up with the stakes we agreed upon yesterday. And I won’t be leaving until the game is done and I have— _we_ have our winnings…as well as my set back in its original form. No funny business, eh?”

            Hans mumbled something to himself in German that Bane could not make out, then in English he conceded, “Very well. But if I detect any signals between the two of you, the game is forfeit and I take it all—stakes and chess set. Understand, _Geier_?”

            The Vulture begrudgingly nodded; in truth, more of a sarcastic bow than a nod. He shuffled to the table where he set down the chess board and possessively ran his hand over it before spilling the pieces out of their bag. He picked up one black pawn and one white pawn, then put his hands behind his back. After an instant he brought forth his fists and held them toward Hans.

            “Choose one. That’s the color you will play.”

            Hans’s eyes made a quick scan of the remaining pieces that Bane was setting up on the board, then he tapped the Vulture’s right hand. Inside was the white pawn. Bane did not care which color he was dealt, for the Vulture had ensured during his training that he was as comfortable with the game’s second turn as he was with the first.

            “Open your other hand,” Hans ordered.

            With a smirk, the Vulture revealed the black pawn, satisfying Hans that he did not hold two pawns of the same color.

            “Let me see your money,” said Hans.

            The Vulture dipped a hand inside his tunic and produced a five-rupee coin, which Hans matched. Each set their coin down next to the board.

            “If the boy wins,” Hans rumbled cynically, “how will you split a single coin?”

            “We’ll split what the coin buys,” Bane interjected, hoping to alleviate some of Hans’s suspicion so the Vulture would not be nervous and say something that would insult the German and cause him to order them out. Bane had been looking forward to the game, nervous yet eager to test his skill against a fresh opponent, an unknown quantity.

            For the first time a smile eased Hans’s expression, and he settled into a chair across the table. A box served as Bane and Osito’s seat, and the Vulture perched on Hans’s charpoy.

            “You remember what I said, boy.” Hans pointed a finger first at Bane then at the Vulture. “No sly looks between the two of you. You keep your hands where I can see them at all times, _ja_?”

            Bane nodded, his fingers twitching, impatient to begin.

            “All right then.” Hans grinned. “Let’s see if I remember how to play.”


	13. Chapter 13

            During the first two weeks of chess matches Bane lost as much as he won. He blamed the defeats on nervousness. Facing players with years of experience was intimidating enough, but the Vulture’s constant, fidgeting presence at the matches, there to silently remind him that their fortunes were inescapably linked, nearly made the atmosphere unbearable. Once Bane mastered his anxiety, victories came more and more frequently, and the Vulture’s initial apoplexy over his losses faded away. Within two months’ time they found themselves with what Bane considered an abundance of rations and charcoal. He even acquired a small pair of shoes—too large to wear, of course, but he used the material to improve upon what he did wear.

            His success brought an almost astonishing transformation to the Vulture. The man no longer spent most of his time in his cell. Instead he visited the stepwell with more regularity—leading to improvement in personal hygiene, which Bane and anyone else near him appreciated—and his insistence on accompanying Bane to every chess match took him down corridors where he had heretofore been too afraid to venture. He was not as prone to gloominess as before, and he seemed to delight in hearing himself laugh, a sound that often grated on Bane’s ears but for which he could not begrudge the man. After all, he did owe the Vulture a debt of gratitude for the chess set and thus the improvement in their daily lives. And he was relieved that their new resources nullified any practical reason for him to share the Vulture’s cell.

            But not everyone was pleased with the seemingly new Vulture.

            “Don’t let that old bird fool you, boy,” Abrams had quietly advised him one day when their paths crossed in one of the corridors. He took Bane by the arm and pulled him deeper into the shadows, out of earshot of the nearest cells and their inmates. “Don’t let your guard down.”

            Bane scowled. “What are you going on about?” His day had progressed well so far, having beaten Hans for the second time at chess, and he had no desire for his mood to be sabotaged by Abrams and more of his ambiguous advice. Since Abrams had first warned him to be cautious around the Vulture after his mother’s death, the man had said little else, yet Bane always sensed Abrams watching his interactions with the Vulture, whether in his cell or elsewhere.

            “He’s digging his claws into you,” Abrams said. “You trust him too much.”

            “What’s it to you? I’ve helped him out; he’s helped me out. That’s how it works. Sounds to me like you’re just jealous of all we’ve gotten.”

            Abrams straightened to his full height and considered Bane with a stony visage. “That’s how it works, eh?” he echoed with a bite in his tone. “And what do you know about how things work? So a boy beats men at a board game. You think that makes you something better than them? Respected by them? You think that makes you so valuable to the Vulture that he won’t try something on you?”

            Bane’s scowl deepened. “What are you talking about?”

            Abrams did not respond immediately. In fact, he seemed to waver, as if reconsidering his words or perhaps even thinking of abandoning the conversation and leaving. He looked away from Bane to stare down the corridor. Bane followed his gaze but saw only darkness mottled by the weak light of well-spaced lanterns—ancient metal wall fixtures illuminated by guttering candles—and heard only the distant shouts of two men arguing. Yet Abrams’s focus seemed to be upon something specific, something perhaps more in his mind than before his eyes. Whatever it was, his odd fervor drained away along with the touch of anger that had been in his voice. His eyes darkened, and a muscle in his jaw tensed.

            When Abrams finally spoke, his tone was flat, emotionless, and chilled Bane to his marrow. “What I’m _talking_ about…” He swallowed hard, still kept his unblinking attention down the corridor. “I’m talking about something your mother never warned you about. Sure, I heard everything she told you since I came into this shithole; how could it be otherwise with her always in her cell, just on the other side of that blanket that used to hang there? And I’m a man, ain’t I? Hearing a woman’s voice down here…the only woman’s voice I’ll probably ever hear for the rest of my miserable life…how could I not listen to her?”

            Bane’s impatience with the man slipped away, for he was astounded by Abrams’s words—what he admitted as well as the mere fact that he was saying so much after so little over the years. When Abrams paused in his monologue, Bane almost feared that he would not continue, feared also that if he dared speak the spell would be broken and Abrams would vanish into the shadows.

            Finally the man continued, his voice almost sibilant. “She told you about the ways of men…men and women, I mean. But she didn’t tell you of all men’s ways. She was young; maybe she truly didn’t know. But I do.” His words became clipped. “I knew a man like the Vulture once…when I was a boy a bit older than you. I trusted him. I was a fool.”

            “What happened?” Bane’s question came out in nearly a whisper.

            Abrams’s attention snapped back to him, and the man seemed almost startled and annoyed, as if he had just discovered that he was not alone. “Some men,” he said with continued sharpness, “prefer children instead of women, men like the Vulture. I’ve seen how he looks at you; does it when you aren’t looking. I see him; I know.”

            Bane tried to process what Abrams had said, tried to understand, to decipher if the man was truly intimating what he seemed to be intimating. But it made no sense to Bane’s young mind. He heard only what his mother had told him, heard only the crudities thrown at her by the male population of the pit, the raw words describing what they would do to her if she ever left that cell. Yet…when Bane tried to recall the Vulture ever joining in, ever adding his voice to the wolf pack, he found no such memory.

            When he stared up at Abrams with his mouth slightly open in mute speculation, the man’s attention fell to Osito. Instinctively Bane drew the bear close to his chest, wrapped his arms around it in a vain attempt to generate warmth and comfort, to try to rekindle the self-confidence that had propelled him down the corridor with light steps just a few short minutes ago.

            Briefly Abrams touched the bear. “Keep him close, no matter what that fucking Vulture says.”

            “He says I’m too old for it.”

            “Next time he tells you that you tell him the bear brings you good luck when you’re playing the game. The old bastard won’t have any complaints about it then.”

            A wise strategy, Bane realized, for the Vulture was a superstitious man who would not want to potentially jeopardize his new standard of living.

            When Bane was able to meet Abrams’s eyes again, he felt a sudden wave of humility and thanked him for his concern and advice. Abrams nodded, almost self-conscious now, and continued on his way down the corridor. Bane watched him go until the darkness swallowed him.

            For the rest of the day Bane could not get Abrams out of his head, could not stop thinking about him abiding, unseen, on the other side of that blanket all those months, silently listening to her voice, a voice that Bane now realized had both tortured and soothed the man.


	14. Chapter 14

            When Bane awoke the next morning, his entire body ached, but he blamed the pain in his joints and muscles on yesterday’s overzealous workout. The dull throb of a headache ballooned the minute he sat up. For a moment his head swam, and he had to close his eyes. When his stomach grumbled a small protest, his thoughts went to the scrap of suspect meat he had eaten last night—more spoils from his chess-playing prowess. Surely his opponents had not gone to the pains of tainting his winnings in order to punish him for his victories.

            Dismissing the muddled thoughts that tripped through his foggy brain, he stood. Again the room danced around him, and he shut his eyes, waited, took a deep breath. Perhaps he should lie back down for a bit before going to the stepwell. But when he opened his eyes, the world came back into focus. The faded gray of the shaft seemed a bit clearer than usual, and he realized it was later than when he usually awoke. He remembered Abrams’s words from yesterday. Had it been yesterday? Or did he have his days mixed up? Abrams was not in his cell. Neither was the Vulture. Yes, he must have truly overslept.

            Thinking of the two chess matches that the Vulture had lined up for him today, Bane gathered his senses and cautiously left his cell, pausing in the doorway to steady himself against the bars. The usual murmur of voices drifted up from the pool, but for some reason the sounds seemed farther away than usual. Carefully he made his way to the nearest steps and started his descent. The hint of a downdraft caressed him and made him realize how warm his skin felt; an incongruous sensation indeed down here in the bowels of the earth.

            When he reached the pool, he realized he had left Osito on his charpoy. His negligence alarmed him. How could he have forgotten? Bringing Osito was an ingrained custom. His oversight caused a strange hint of panic to crawl into his churning stomach. His gaze swept over the small gathering of prisoners at the pool. No one paid him any heed. Disproportionately his concern over Osito grew, and he stopped several feet from the pool, his heart racing. What was the matter with him? There was no reason to worry; he could easily return to his cell for Osito and then come back to wash.

            But he remained frozen there, his mind strangely paralyzed with indecision. He could hear his own breathing now, his mouth open, salivating. He had never vomited before, though he had seen his mother and others do so time and again, especially when he accompanied the doctor on his rounds. Is this what it felt like before it happened?

            He spun about to make for the steps, but he got only to the base of them before he stumbled to his knees and loudly retched.

            The men behind him at the pool, the ones above him on the steps all around the shaft fell silent, and Bane felt every eye turn his way.

            Greyson’s distant voice: “Son of a bitch.”

            Then the stampede ensued, everyone trying to get as far away from him as possible, footfalls flying up the other steps, more curses driven by the great terror of contagion. One man shouted for someone to fetch the doctor. Fearing that the inmates might wish to harm him, to stamp out whatever it was he might have contracted, Bane clawed his way up the steps on all fours, his head spinning. The swarming heat of fever and the agony in his belly felled him before he reached the next level. He lay there on the stone, both placated and tormented by its coolness, knowing he had to get up, to get back to the safety of his cell, but his strength had abruptly left him. Mechanically his fingers fumbled for the key on the string around his neck, willing himself to be back at his door.

            The last thing he remembered was the Vulture’s raspy voice somewhere nearby, complaining that he had to get the hell up; he had matches to play. Bane made one last attempt, but he found that he no longer had a genuine desire to stand. All he wanted to do was remain with his cheek pressed to the stone, like his mother’s cool hand against his burning flesh, and sleep.

#

            Fourteen years spent living in the darkness of the pit had honed Bane’s sense of smell so acutely that he did not require sight to identify who was near him. He had learned that all men emitted individual scents, some more malodorous than others. The more evil the man, the easier and more strongly Bane could smell him in this cesspool. So he had no need—indeed no will—to open his eyes in order to know that he was lying on his charpoy with Doctor Assad bent over him. Bane tried to speak, but the words slipped out only as a quiet moan.

            A cold hand gently pressed against his forehead, and Assad spoke, but Bane could neither assemble the words into coherence nor know if they were directed at him or someone else. But who would be in his cell besides the doctor? Bane allowed no one else to enter, not even the Vulture. It had been his mother’s space, hers and his alike. An oasis in a black desert. Hearing the prisoners’ degrading, lecherous words thrown at her like weapons from beyond the bars had been defilement enough. Their curses still rang in his head, foul language that had battered their ears. Never had she returned one evil syllable; never did she speak in such coarse ways, and Bane had promised her that neither would he. “Our living conditions may be inhuman,” she had said to him, “but that doesn’t mean we have to become inhuman to survive here.” Even with her gone now, no matter how much time passed, he would not allow an invasion by those so unworthy of sharing the same space where she had lived and died.

            Something touched Bane’s lips, and he automatically opened his mouth. A narrow, glassy instrument beneath his tongue. He closed his lips around the thermometer. When it was removed a moment later, Assad clucked his tongue with concern.

            “Bane, can you hear me, boy?”

            Bane nodded once, even that small movement stirring pain in his neck.

            “I want you to drink this.”

            Assad’s hand slipped beneath his head to help raise him enough to sip from a tin cup. Something warm and bitter. But the moment the liquid touched his stomach, Bane vomited, rolling on his side just in time to keep it from spoiling his blanket and charpoy. The physical effort of retching increased his discomfort. He groaned and dropped his head to the pillow which was already damp with sweat.

            “What the fuck’s wrong with him?” The Vulture’s voice but not close. No, from his cell. But it sounded somehow muffled, like it had when his mother had been alive. Perhaps the doctor had hung up blankets to shield others from whatever it was that now gripped him and to keep out the bit of light that might reach in from the nearby shaft. Bane welcomed the darkness, its familiarity offering solace where nothing else could.

            “Too early to say,” Assad replied. “His fever is already high. He will dehydrate quickly if he cannot keep liquids down. If only I had an IV.”

            The Vulture cursed under his breath.

            Water fell with a smooth sound, as if poured from a pitcher into a bowl. Bane started to drift off, but something moist against his lips brought him back, and he cracked his eyes into slits. The doctor’s shape wavered before him, something in his hand, close.

            “Try sucking on this wet cloth. Just a little at a time. Can you, boy?”

            Afraid of being sick again, Bane hesitated.

            “You must try. I will hold it for you.”

            From his hours spent with the doctor on his rounds, seeing all forms of illness, knowing their symptoms and names, he easily understood the importance of fluids when it came to fever and dehydration induced by vomiting. But that knowledge made it no easier to allow the couple of swallows of water to slide down his throat. His stomach put up a small threat but relented enough to keep the fluids down for now.

            “I can sit with him,” the Vulture said. “I’ll get some water into him.”

            Abrams from the next cell: “You stay the fuck away from him. Doc, Bane don’t need his help. You sit with him.”

            “I have other patients to attend to,” Assad said with regret. The doctor tucked something under the blanket, then lifted one of Bane’s hands to it—Osito. Assad touched his shoulder. “Take a bit more water, my boy, before I go. I’ll come back to check on you as soon as I can.”

            Bane did not know if he spoke in response, did not know if the wet rag touched his lips again. All he knew after hearing Assad’s words was a long, slow fall into a blackness that rivaled anything the pit could conjure.


	15. Chapter 15

            “ _Rickettsia_ _typhi_.”

            Through the fog of fever Bane heard the doctor’s words echo over and over, as if they bounced off the walls of the huge shaft itself, amplified then funneled through every corridor for the whole prison to hear. Slowly, like rusted gears, Bane’s mind grasped the two words, searched for their significance, eventually dredging up a distant memory of the physician testing his medical knowledge.

            “What is the causative agent of murine typhus?”

            “ _Rickettsia_ _typhi_.”

            “How is it transmitted to humans?”

            “Through fleas and lice.”

            In his current ill state Bane took little comfort in knowing that murine typhus was not as dreaded as epidemic typhus, though no doubt the rest of the prison population would breathe a bit easier when word of his diagnosis spread.

            He had lost track of time, aware of little else besides the pains in his body; his stomach muscles ached still from the first days of illness when he had vomited and dry-heaved more times than he cared to recall. Although he mainly existed in a world completely black, completely silent, sometimes he dreamed of his mother or father, or of climbing the shaft, of stepping out into the light and feeling the sun on his skin. Other times nightmares chased him—visions of the faceless man who had doomed his mother to her wretched fate, a man who took hold of him and threw him back into the pit where he fell endlessly through a blur of gray light, never reaching the bottom, his screams reverberating from the cylindrical walls. In other visions the screams belonged to his mother as a mob of prisoners tore her apart, the Vulture there among them, his eyes aglow from within.

            Periodically throughout his illness Bane was aware of the doctor at his bedside, trying to force liquids into him, cleaning up after him. Occasionally Bane heard him reading aloud. Dickens. C.S. Lewis. Emerson. Sometimes it was not Assad who read to him but his mother. Bane tried to latch onto the words, tried to use them as a lifeline to draw closer to permanent consciousness, but consciousness was a tenuous ghost.

            Today, however, was different. This time when Doctor Assad came to his cell, Bane sensed optimism as if it had a tactile quality to it.

            “At last, my boy,” Assad hastily said, followed by a pinprick that made Bane squirm in protest. “You’ll start to feel better soon now.” His palm rested against Bane’s forehead. “Not so warm,” he murmured with satisfaction. “You’re through the worst. I have antibiotics now. Better late than never, yes?” A strained chuckle and a soft pat against Bane’s arm. “Rest now.”

            Bane opened his eyes just enough to see Assad seated next to his charpoy. He wanted to show appreciation for the drugs, for his devotion over these many days, for not allowing him to succumb as dozens of other inmates did when they became ill. No doubt the antibiotics had required some sacrifice on his part to acquire them. Like everything else here, there was a limited supply, and once a supply was exhausted it could be months before replenishment. Such shortages had cost his mother her life.

            With what strength there was left to him, Bane whispered, “Thank you.”

            Assad smiled and nodded. “Rest,” he repeated. He picked up Osito from the floor where the bear had fallen and slipped him back under the blanket.

            When the doctor left the cell, Bane noticed that the blanket across the door had been taken down, but the ones hanging on either side of the cell remained. Just as Assad finished turning the key to lock the door behind him, a small shadow slipped up to him, and Bane heard the Vulture’s voice, thin and cracking.

            “Did you get the medicine?”

            “Yes. But I don’t have as much as I’d like. I think he’s made it through the worst of it on his own, though, so hopefully this will be enough to see him on the mend.”

            The Vulture looked toward Bane, but the dim light from the shaft behind him threw his face into shadow. Bane wondered what the man felt. Desperation? Relief? Frustration? He did not delude himself by thinking the Vulture felt any sort of concern for his well-being beyond that of his restoration as a lucrative chess champion. Bane thought of the chess set, wondered if the Vulture had tried his own hand at playing other prisoners while his partner lay half dead with typhus. Perhaps he would soon feel well enough to play a game, even if only from his charpoy, to keep his skills honed. But to do that, he would have to let the Vulture into his cell.

            The doctor moved away down the corridor, but the Vulture remained for a moment longer, as if he wanted to say something. But at last he drifted away into the shadows.

#

            Nearly another week passed before Bane felt strong enough to leave his charpoy for more than the time it took to walk from bed to chair. Hans came to visit, talking for a while outside of Bane’s door about some of the happenings in the prison during his illness, reporting a couple of deaths, and telling him the rumor about a new prisoner who would be arriving within the next day or two.

            “Another mercenary,” Hans said. “A Brit. Word is he got himself into trouble with the local warlord.”

            “What did he do?”

            Hans grinned. “They say the infidel was caught in bed with the warlord’s daughter. Not sure how he kept his head for that. I suppose the girl’s father thinks sending him here is a fate worse than death.” Hans shrugged pragmatically. “I suppose it is, eh? At least on most days.” He smiled. “Well, you should get some rest. Perhaps soon I’ll have another crack at you in chess, _ja_?”

            Bane smiled and said good-bye, and even that somehow still made his muscles protest. But at least the pain faded quickly now, and he rolled back over to sleep a while longer.


	16. Chapter 16

            During his recovery Bane often heard the Vulture moving restlessly about on the other side of the blanket hanging from the bars. Sometimes the man muttered to himself, things Bane could not hear well enough to understand, nor did he try too ardently to do so. The Vulture’s buoyant mood from the weeks before Bane’s illness had faded, and he seemed to have reverted to his old reclusive habits. Once the blanket came down and the Vulture was able to see his neighbor again, he perked up a bit, no doubt hoping Bane would soon be able to restore their fortunes.

            “Damn near out of fuel,” the Vulture grumbled on the first morning Bane was able to eat breakfast—a warm bran mash the doctor had brought to him before leaving on his rounds. The Vulture’s sidelong glance made Bane uncomfortable.

            “Do you need something to eat?” Bane asked, wondering if a lack of food was the reason behind the Vulture’s scrutiny.

            “No. I have a few scraps left.”

            Bane knew the statement was meant to punish him for his time as an invalid, but he did not feel badly for the man; if anything, he was irritated by his callousness.

            Perhaps the Vulture sensed his annoyance, for when he spoke again his tone was not so wounded and a touch of obsequiousness threaded through his words. “I could help you to the stepwell this morning, boy, if you’re of a mind to go. You could use a good scrub. I might have a bit of soap left, too.”

            Abrams’s warning slipped back to Bane, like the odor of a rat carcass he had once discovered in the old Serb’s cell while he lay dying.

            “What do you say, boy?”

            Bane scraped up the last of his breakfast with his battered spoon. The truth of the matter was that he did want to go to the stepwell, not just to wash off the stench of illness, but to reclaim some normalcy, to believe that he truly had recovered, that the antibiotics would be enough, that his returning strength would be enough. He was fairly confident that he could get down the stairs; he was not, however, as assured about the climb back up.

            He set aside the bowl, answered, “All right,” as he reached for his shoes then for Osito.

            In an instant the Vulture was standing at Bane’s door, his expression suddenly bright. He absently rubbed his hands together as if trying to remove a stain. He shifted from foot to foot as he waited, and once Bane emerged, the Vulture held out a thin arm.

            “You can lean on me if you want.”

            “No. I’ll be fine.” When the Vulture’s happiness faded slightly, Bane added, “Might need your help coming back, though.”

            This procured a fleeting smile from the man, and he gestured for Bane to go ahead of him.

            A dozen prisoners were at the pool, and all looked up when Bane emerged from the shadows into the shaft. He hesitated at the top of the steps, wondering if anyone might give him trouble. He looked for Ramzi or Greyson, but neither was there. Gathering his breath, he started downward, careful where he placed each foot in case any dizziness might rear up and send him tumbling. He had to admit that he took some comfort in the Vulture following him. If he did fall, at least the man was close enough to catch him.

            “I heard,” the Vulture said, “that we’re going to get some supplies tomorrow. You need to get some food into you. Skinny as a stick. Wouldn’t want someone taking advantage of you now, would we? Maybe…if you could win a couple of chess matches before then—play for money, I mean—you might be able to get hold of some real food, meat maybe, when the supplies arrive.”

            “I don’t think my stomach is ready for that,” Bane said.

            “Not straight, no, but in a soup maybe. I could make something for you.”

            “Maybe they’ll be afraid to play me for a while because of being sick.”

            “You leave that up to me. I’ll convince ‘em. I’ll find someone.”

            “The doc won’t be too happy with me. He said I should keep to my cell another day or two.”

            “Piss on that old woman. He’s not the one starving for decent food.”

            Bane considered the proposition. It would feel good to get back to the game, to take his mind off his convalescence. “I guess I could…if you can find someone.”

            The Vulture gave a restrained but delighted cackle.

            Hans was one of the men at the pool. He was just finishing his ablutions as Bane drew next to him. The big German offered a smile.

            “Good to see you out and about, boy.”

            Bane smiled self-consciously and set Osito down so he could struggle out of his tunic. The Vulture was immediately there to help but quickly skittered away from Hans’s dark look. Warily he produced the small square of soap and handed it to Bane.

            “Maybe our esteemed German friend would be interested in a match?” The Vulture raised one inquiring eyebrow.

            “Not today. I have a different kind of match to prepare for.” He grinned at Bane.

            “Who are you fighting?” Bane asked.

            “Yemi.”

            Mohammad Adeyemi was a Nigerian who had arrived in the prison about five years ago. Though he was not as tall as Hans, he was solidly built and the second best fighter in the pit after Hans. The two men had fought several times, Yemi always determined to win the crown, but so far his hopes had been thwarted. Whenever the two men clashed, the whole prison wagered on the bout, and as many inmates as possible would fill the stepwell, every inch of space claimed to watch the combatants square off next to the pool, like Romans watching gladiators in the coliseum. Sometimes the jostling to get a decent seat led to fights among the spectators. Bane’s mother had always tried to keep him from being among the dangerous audience, but a couple of times he had managed to defy her and squeeze his way between prisoners to watch.

            When Hans stood to leave the pool, Bane said, “I will cheer for you.”

            Hans considered him, then his gaze momentarily touched upon the Vulture who took the soap from Bane to wash. “You should stay in your cell for this one, Bane. Your illness has weakened you, and you know how things can get out of hand.”

            “He’s right,” the Vulture added with a quick glance between them.

            Bane scowled at the Vulture. “You’re not my mother. I can do as I please.”

            With an unhappy glower the Vulture hunched his shoulders and went back to his washing.

            “We’re not _telling_ you, boy,” said Hans, “we’re asking.”

            Stubbornly Bane turned away from him to rinse the soap from his arms. Hans gave a surrendering sigh before he left.


	17. Chapter 17

 

            The buzz of excitement and the shouts of wagering filled the shaft. So many prisoners had already gathered there that Bane could see little of the stepwell from his cell, for men stood between his door and the shaft two ranks deep. Surely the whole prison population was there. Although nearly evening, light still filtered down into the stepwell, for it was early summer when the days were longest.

            “Hurry up, boy!” The Vulture stood outside his door, the chess board tucked under one arm, the bag with the pieces held in his other hand. Fearful, he would not turn his back toward the gathering hordes. During the “cock fights,” as the Vulture referred to the brawling matches, it was not uncommon for one or more spectators to “accidentally” fall from his seat down into the pool—or worse, onto the pavement—usually assisted on his way by someone wagering against his man. The Vulture did not want to provide anyone with an opportunity for just that type of ribald and injurious fun.

            Even if he had wanted to hurry, Bane was moving as fast as his weakened body would allow as he tied his shoes. “Why did you have to pick now? Why can’t I play after Hans’s fight?”

            “That bastard Greyson said now’s best, while everyone’s in the shaft. Said he can think better; it’ll be quieter back there in his cell.”

            Bane still found it difficult to believe Greyson would willingly miss the fight. Even harder to believe was Greyson wanting to play chess. Never would Bane have imagined the man to be schooled in anything other than self-serving mayhem and larceny.

            As Bane left his cell with Osito, a sudden thought struck him, and he grabbed the Vulture’s arm as the man started to turn away. “This is Hans’s idea, isn’t it? So I don’t watch the fight.”

            The Vulture’s sharp gaze fell to Bane’s hand for a moment before flicking anxiously at the prisoners near them. “We need money more than we need to watch two fools beating each other’s heads in.” He took hold of Bane’s loose-fitting sleeve. “Now come on, boy, before Greyson changes his mind.”

            “We could put our money on Hans. He’s going to win.”

            “I’d rather take my chances on _you_ winning. And with Greyson as your opponent, you just might beat him fast enough to be back before the end of the fight. And, besides, wouldn’t you like to win back the doctor’s scalpel for him? Greyson tells me he still has it. Now enough jabbering, boy. Let’s go.”

            Bane had little strength to defy him. And though he did not like to admit it, the Vulture did have a point about the surer odds of defeating Greyson and thus securing funds to barter over the next arrival of supplies in the pit. Nor had he forgotten the ignominy of losing Doctor Assad’s blade to Greyson, so the prospect of reacquiring it for the man who had gone to such pains to see him recovered from his illness helped him surrender to his fate. And finally, thinking of his mother, he swallowed his desire to watch Hans in action, at least this time. After all, there would be other bouts; neither Hans nor Yemi nor any of their challengers would be going anywhere other than to their graves. By the time the next fight came about he would have played enough chess matches to have money to wager. Someday, when he was old enough and strong enough, he would be down there next to the pool, maybe even squared off against Hans himself.

            Traveling through the corridors, where one would never know the world of light existed, Bane would have been unable to keep pace with the eager Vulture if not for the man’s sure grip on his sleeve. The Vulture’s breath came in shallow pants, and Bane wondered why he did not slow down if he was winded. Or were his gasps merely from excitement, knowing that soon they would be prosperous again?

            Greyson’s cell was nearly at the end of a corridor, and every cell Bane passed was empty. A prick of envy almost made him halt and run back to the shaft, but the Vulture plowed ever onward. At one point the Vulture’s lips moved, and he seemed to whisper something to himself, but Bane could not catch the words. The man’s dark eyes flashed once down at him, as if to make sure he was still there, and something in that gaze sent a shiver of warning through Bane, but he dismissed it as frailty from the typhus.

            “Here we are,” the Vulture said.

            “Where’s Greyson?”

            To Bane’s amazement, the door was unlocked; the Vulture opened it as if expecting it so.

            “He said he might be delayed a couple of minutes.”

            “Why would he leave his door unlocked?”

            “Perhaps he simply forgot.”

            Thinking such an oversight on Greyson’s part unlikely, Bane hesitated as the Vulture entered. “If he finds us inside when he isn’t here, he’s going to be mad.”

            The Vulture still had a hold of his sleeve. “You worry too much, boy. We won’t disturb nothing; we’ll just set up the game so we’re ready when he returns.” He produced a small, wily grin. “Afraid of him, are you?”

            Bane scowled and yanked free of the man. The Vulture’s grin died, and his eyes narrowed.

            “I’m not afraid of him,” Bane growled and pushed past him into the cell, snatching the chess board from beneath his arm.

            Bane knelt on the floor with Osito beside him and set down the board. When the Vulture drew near, Bane glanced heatedly up at him and snapped, “Give me the bag.”

            Silently the Vulture obeyed, and Bane spilled the pieces onto the board. With short, sharp movements he set up each one.

            “Greyson had better show soon or I’m leaving.”

            “Now, now,” the Vulture crooned, crouching next to him, close, his respiration still elevated. “No need to be upset with me. I didn’t mean nothing. Just a bit of teasing, eh?” His hand rested upon Bane’s shoulder. Bane tried to shrug him off, but the Vulture’s fingers started to knead his flesh. More irritated than alarmed, Bane weakly shoved his hand away.

            “Leave me alone.”

            “Seems to me you’ve been _alone_ long enough, boy.”

            “What are you talking about?” Bane grumbled, almost done with the pieces.

            “I’m talking about your mother; you being left all alone in this hellhole. No one to look out for you, keep you warm.”

            “I can take care of myself.”

            “Can you? You’ve been sick for so long, you don’t have the strength of a rat.”

            Bane stared at him, expected him to move away, but the Vulture remained close, their bodies nearly touching, an odd, crooked smile in one corner of his mouth. The man’s gaze lowered from Bane’s eyes to his lips, and the smile broadened. It was then that Bane realized exactly what Abrams’s warning had been about.

            He reached for Osito just as the Vulture grabbed him and lifted him off his feet. Bane struggled, kicking and punching, beating Osito against him, but the man held him so close that the blows did nothing to stop him. Bane tried to bite him, but the Vulture’s loose clothing and lean frame thwarted his efforts. He cried out for help.

            “Scream all you want, boy; no one’s gonna hear you.”

            The Vulture shoved him onto Greyson’s charpoy, face down. Osito slipped from Bane’s hand as he continued to fight, the Vulture’s full weight pinning him, making it difficult to breathe. The Vulture’s fingers scratched him as his searching hand shoved Bane’s long tunic out of the way and found the waistband of his pants, clawing at the frayed rope belt. Desperate, Bane stretched his hand toward Osito there on the floor, just at the ends of his fingertips. Every fiber in his muscles screamed against his efforts, but he kept his bulging eyes on the bear, willing it closer. His belt loosened, came free. All he could hear was the Vulture’s quick pants and incomprehensible, low words, could smell the man’s fear that someone would come down the corridor. That anxious impatience caused his hands to shake as he yanked at Bane’s clothing, caused him to focus on what he was doing instead of where Bane’s hand had crept.

            Bane’s fingers walked against Osito’s fabric, rolling the toy slightly toward him until at last he found the open seam. Cold air touched the bare flesh of his legs. The Vulture’s bony hands slid along his buttocks, and the man gave a half-gasped laugh.

            Bane slashed his knife upward and back.

            The Vulture’s scream pierced the air. An instant jet of blood warmed Bane’s neck and cheek. The Vulture fell from the charpoy, clutching at his jugular vein, his hands, neck, and chest already bathed in crimson. Bane leapt up, nearly fell over the tangle of his pants around his ankles. The Vulture grabbed for his leg with his free hand, missed, his eyes wild and wide, pleading. Bane avoided him, brandishing the knife between them, tears of fright streaming, unknown, down his face. Teeth bared, he tasted the Vulture’s blood. The red tide flowed across the chess board and seeped into Osito.

            “Help me, boy,” the Vulture rasped. “Please…”

            Bane could only stare at him, barely able to breathe, shaking uncontrollably, his fingers so tight upon the knife handle that his hand ached. He wanted to flee but stood frozen, watching as his victim’s life spilled into the cracks of the stones and stained the natural-colored chess pieces that had been knocked asunder by the Vulture’s struggles.

            When at last the man lay motionless, no longer a threat, no longer staring at him with any hint of life left in his half-closed eyes, Bane was able to breathe again, to hear over the hammer of his heart. The roar of voices from the shaft struggled to find him here in the prison’s depths, nudged him into action. Only through the fuel of adrenaline was he able to sidle around the Vulture’s body, blood staining his shoes. Flinging the door wide, he ran as fast as his unsteady legs could carry him, leaving Osito behind.


	18. Chapter 18

 

            The fight in the shaft raged on, so no one noticed Bane dart into his cell. The prisoners’ cheers for Hans and Yemi deafened him, but he did not think of the bout, did not think of anything but what he had just done. He dropped the bloody knife inside his cold brazier, then—still trembling from head to toe—he snatched the blankets off his charpoy and went to the farthest, darkest corner of his cell. He shrank to the floor, teeth chattering, drawing his knees up and wrapping the blankets as tightly around him as he could, burrowing within himself, barely mindful of the sticky blood drying on his face, neck, and hands. He stared outward at the backs of the prisoners whose fists violently jabbed and swung in the air. Overwhelmed by the noise, he put his hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face against his knees, shallowly rocking.

            A concerted outcry vibrated the stone beneath him, heralding the end of the fight. But the cacophony of curses and shouts continued as bets were settled. The dimming natural light from the shaft flickered and wavered as the crowd began to fragment and men went their separate ways, no one paying Bane any heed, the shadows successfully hiding him. How long would it take them to discover what he had done? He should not have left Osito behind, for the bear’s presence would be a damning incrimination.

            He knew he should get up and wash off the blood, but now that the adrenaline had faded away he was left exhausted, unsure if he could even stand. Distantly he watched the inmates file away down the various corridors, the shaft now almost dark.

            The hinges of Abrams’s cell door squealed, and the man stepped inside, a grin on his dark face and something in his hand. If he had had the ability to do so, Bane would have ran to the bars to tell him what the Vulture had tried to do, to remind Abrams that he had known the truth about the man so he could now vouch for his actions. To wantonly murder another prisoner led to severe punishment—beatings, whippings, food and water withheld, isolation, to name only a few of the tactics used to ensure some semblance of order in the pit. However, if the murder was in self-defense the penalty could be reduced or forgiven altogether. Yet Bane had only Osito as a witness, a tragic circumstance no doubt orchestrated by the Vulture.

            Whatever Abrams held in his hand—winnings most likely—he deposited inside a small leather bag. He turned as if to look for Bane, peering into the shadows.

            “Did you see the fight, boy? Hans won again, the God damn Kraut bastard.” His sharp laugh ended abruptly, and he drew closer to the bars. “What the hell you doing back there?”

            A new sound rumbled from far down one of the corridors, the corridor where Greyson lived. The noise of alarmed voices rolled and built, coming toward the shaft. Bane wrapped his arms tighter around his legs, the cold from the stone floor numbing him. Abrams’s attention shifted, and he cocked his head to listen, then drifted toward the front of his cell to better judge the disturbance.

            Several prisoners hurried into view, one shouting for the doctor.

            Abrams called out to them that Assad was with Yemi the last he had seen of him. The small group rushed away, but one inmate lingered behind. Greyson.

            The American slipped over to the front of Bane’s cell. Bane remained perfectly still, hoping the darkness would conceal him, but Greyson—existing these years in a cell far distant from the shaft—had eyes better suited to the prison’s night than even Bane’s.

            “So you dispatched the slimy old bastard, did you?” Greyson chuckled hardheartedly. “Bet he wasn’t expecting that. Where’d you get a knife, kid?”

            Abrams interrupted, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

            Greyson grinned. “Tell him, kid.”

            Bane said nothing, though he knew it was fruitless to deny anything.

            Greyson chuckled again. “I got a secret to tell you, boy.” He pressed his face against the bars. “I don’t know shit about chess.” He laughed and started back down the corridor, his macabre mirth ringing against the stone.

            Abrams’s expression was grave. “What happened, Bane?” His attention reached beyond Bane’s cell as if just now noticing the Vulture’s absence. “Was it that damn Vulture? What’d he do to you?”

            Doctor Assad came rushing past with the prisoners who had gone to fetch him. His glance flashed once toward Bane’s cell, but he did not appear to see him there in the camouflage of his dark blankets. Once the doctor was gone, Bane climbed to his feet and rushed to pour water from his pitcher into a bowl, then splashed his face and neck, scrubbing at the blood with a rag, no longer able to bear its mask, desperate to expunge the reminder, the evidence before Assad returned as surely he would.

            “Bane, God damn it,” Abrams growled. “Look at me.”

            The coarse rag burned Bane’s neck with each frantic, forceful pass. He could feel the stiff weight of the blood upon his clothes. He had nothing with which to replace his stained garments. And with night descending, even removing the _shemagh_ would lead to discomfort of another kind. Perhaps deep in the night, when no one would be at the stepwell, he could slip down there and wash his clothes then wrap himself in his blankets until they dried. But if he scrubbed too hard to remove the blood from the garments, the threadbare fabric could begin to disintegrate. Then what would he have to keep him warm?

            “Bane!” Abrams’s sharp, loud bark finally jarred him back to his senses, and he momentarily met the man’s gaze. The concern in Abrams’s eyes stunned him. Of course; if anyone understood, it would be Abrams.

            “It—it was like you said,” Bane stammered quietly. “The Vulture. He attacked me.”

            A foul string of oaths spewed from Abrams who wheeled away from the bars, putting a hand to his forehead. He paused with his back to Bane for a moment before collecting himself and turning around. “Did he hurt you?”

            “No. I—I stopped him.”

            “The knife?”

            “Yes.”

            “Well,” Abrams gripped the bars tightly, “at least there’s that. You killed him?”

            Softer still: “Yes.”

            “Son of a bitch, good for you. Bastard deserved it. I always figured…”

            “I should have listened to you.”

            Abrams scowled. “Don’t go blaming yourself for this. God damn it, don’t do that. You hear me?”

            Bane tried to nod. He soaked the rag and wrung it out, glad the darkness prevented him from seeing the blood in the bowl. Fatigue slowed his efforts. He stumbled over to flush the contents down the toilet in the far corner of his cell.

            “Do you have any fuel for your brazier?” Abrams asked. “You should light a fire and warm yourself.”

            Bane wondered how Abrams knew how chilled he was, how his very innards felt frozen. But he barely had the strength to make it back to his charpoy, let alone coax a fire in the brazier where the gory knife lay.

            The prisoners who lived in the adjacent cells returned from the stepwell but did not look at Bane. Tomorrow, though, Bane figured everyone would be looking at him once word got around. He did not desire the attention, though he figured no one would berate him for who he had killed since the Vulture had no real friends in the pit.

            Ignoring Abrams’s suggestion of building a fire, he curled up into a ball on his charpoy beneath his blankets, desperate for warmth. The night, however, he welcomed, for he wanted only to disappear into it. His fingers twitched at the absence of Osito here beneath the blankets, gone as his mother was gone. He remembered when she had hidden the knife in the toy and instructed him to always carry Osito with him. Even today she was still protecting him.

            Abrams breathed a frustrated sigh and shuffled over to his own brazier, saying nothing more.


	19. Chapter 19

 

            Footsteps scuffled somewhere near in the night, accompanied by low murmurings. Without getting up to look, Bane knew that the Vulture’s body was being taken to the stepwell. There it would lie on the highest level until tomorrow when it would be hoisted out once the soldiers arrived with the supplies. If the provisions did not come that day, then the body would be taken to the lowest level of the prison where it was coldest and kept until it could be removed from the pit.

            He recognized the doctor’s tread coming toward his cell, but he did not stir, hoping the man mistook him for only a lump of blankets.

            “Bane.” Assad’s tone was flat, unreadable. “Open the door.”

            Bane remained mute, wondering if the doctor could hear the pounding of his heart through the inky silence.

            “Come now, boy. We need to talk. You can’t hide in there forever.”

            Abrams’s voice, commanding but not harsh: “Bane, do as he says.”

            Bane still hesitated a moment longer before he finally, laboriously extracted himself from the blankets and padded across the cell to open the door. Saying nothing he returned to sit on his charpoy, drawing the blankets back around him.

            The doctor reached for the bucket of charcoal next to the brazier, a nearly empty bucket. In fact, Bane was certain the bucket should be empty by now since he had had no chess victories during his illness with which to replenish his supply. No doubt what now remained had been put there by the doctor from his personal allotment. A box of matches rattled, bringing Bane suddenly to his senses and reminding him of the knife.

            “I don’t want a fire.”

            Assad ignored him and went to the front of the brazier. The darkness, Bane knew, would conceal the knife until the coals began to glow, but perhaps by then Assad would be gone…

            His hopes, however, were dashed when the charcoal fell against the blade, making a subtle but unmistakably foreign sound inside the brazier. He held his breath, stared as Assad reached to remove the knife. The doctor frowned at it and set it atop the brazier then continued building the fire. Once a flame flickered within the nestled charcoal and sent subdued light into the cell, Bane inched as far away from the illumination as he could, hoping he had successfully removed the blood from his face. Assad came to sit on the charpoy, but he did not sit close to Bane, a distance that Bane sensed was more from awareness than repulsion.

            With a glance toward Abrams, the doctor began to speak in quiet Latin, “They found Osito in Greyson’s cell. Tell me how he came to be there.”

            Bane’s first impulse was to lie, but he knew the evidence was too damning. “The Vulture said he had arranged for me to play Greyson in a chess match. But when we got to his cell, Greyson wasn’t there. It was a set-up.” He stared only at the brazier, watched a subtle flare of flame within. “The Vulture grabbed me and threw me on the charpoy. I—I tried to stop him. He started to tear my clothes off.” His voice trailed away; he was powerless to say more.

            Assad nodded. “Did you mean to kill him?”

            “I—I don’t know. I just wanted him to stop. I wanted to get away. He was on top of me…”

            “It’s all right, boy. You don’t need to say anything else. I understand.” The doctor sighed. “There will be a hearing, you know. Tomorrow morning. It won’t be easy, but you must tell them the truth, all of it.”

            “What if they don’t believe me? What if they don’t care?”

            “There’s little reason for them not to believe you. And I have the names of those who saw the scene before Greyson contaminated it.”

            Alarmed, Bane asked, “What did he do?”

            “Well, let’s just say you won’t be getting Osito or the chess set back.”

            Bane felt no remorse over this, for he did not want to see the blood now staining the two things that had brought him so much comfort. And he feared he might never again desire to play chess.

            “Did he hurt you?” the doctor asked.

            Bane shook his head.

            “You can tell me the truth, boy. There’s no shame in it.”

            “I _am_ telling the truth.”

            “Very well. Have you eaten?”

            “No.”

            “You are far from recovered from the typhus. You must eat and build yourself back up. You are fortunate it was not a stronger man than the Vulture who attacked you.”

            “I’m not hungry.”

            “No matter. I have some soup made with a bit of chicken in it. I will bring you some. And you will eat it.”

            When Assad started to stand, Bane said, “Doctor…?” He could not continue for a moment, swallowing the bile that had crept up his throat. Assad turned back to him, waited while the coals began a low, warming hiss. Finally Bane continued, “Why—why would the Vulture do that to me? I mean, I was valuable to him.”

            The doctor hesitated before answering, “All men have compulsions, Bane. Some are evil ones, and it is the evil ones that often cannot be controlled. This place weakens the good in men while strengthening the bad. And some men, like the Vulture, are weak before they ever enter the pit. But you, my boy…you are strong, like your mother. The Vulture chose his moment when the typhus had compromised you.” He offered a wan smile. “But after today I don’t think anyone else will be foolish enough to test you again.”


	20. Chapter 20

            The protocol was incongruously civilized for a place like the pit. When a crime such as murder was committed, the names of seven prisoners were randomly drawn from a box to serve as judge and jury. From among the seven, one was elected to serve as judge and foreman in order to keep the proceedings flowing smoothly. All members were allowed to question the accused and—if alive—the victim. Of course none of the jurors could be known friends of the perpetrator or victim. But since the Vulture had no friends the procedure this time was quite straightforward.

            Whenever the pit’s court was in session at the base of the shaft, prisoners flocked into the stepwell to observe, to make wagers for or against the accused, and to occasionally cry out opinions and rude remarks. Such spectacles offered welcomed entertainment almost as highly anticipated as fighting matches.

            From his cell, Bane heard them gathering, heard the laughter and raw humor at both his expense and the Vulture’s as he forced himself to finish his breakfast of oatmeal and crumbles of hard biscuit. He had not slept. For some reason the absence of the Vulture’s snores and sleep-talking had made the night uncommonly disquieting.

            Abrams had been awake for some time, already done eating and now mending his shirt. His back was to Bane whose eyes momentarily traveled over the scars on his flesh. Bane had never asked him about the marks. They did not look like blade cuts; they were long and curved, as if he had once been wrapped in something extremely tight and restricting, chains perhaps. Something that had left an obscure pattern.

            As if feeling Bane’s scrutiny, Abrams glanced over his shoulder, and Bane quickly looked away. Abrams gave an amused snort before looking to his needle. “Sounds like they’re about ready for you, boy.”

            Bane did not get up, though. He dreaded entering the stepwell and having all of those eyes turn to him. A number of prisoners had already stopped by his cell to voice their opinions on what he had done, while others had simply passed by with significant looks. Some grinned wolfishly at him and congratulated him on his crime, as if welcoming him into their pack. Others looked balefully at him, as if they felt challenged by him. Still others considered him with cynical eyes, unbelieving.

            Doctor Assad arrived at Bane’s cell, concerned lines etching his brown forehead. “Come along now. It’s time.”

            Bane set aside his bowl. He glanced at the brazier. The knife was gone, taken as evidence by Yemi who would be his judge today. Yemi, stoic and dutiful, his face bruised from yesterday’s fight, had said very little, showing no partiality one way or the other as he removed the knife.

            “If you are proven innocent of any wrongdoing,” the black man had said in his clipped, heavily-accented English, “the knife will be returned to you.”

            Bane followed Assad into the shaft, and a murmur went up from those lounging about the steps. He faltered when his eyes drifted to where the Vulture’s shrouded corpse lay. Then he looked down to the base of the shaft where roughly-hewn wooden benches had been set along one wall and where the jurors now waited, talking among themselves. One of them looked up. Ramzi. The Arab gave him a mirthless grin. Bane swallowed hard, reminded himself that a majority vote would be required to convict him.

            Assad said, “I can come with you, if you’d like.”

            Mechanically Bane shook his head. He did not want to appear weak before these men. And so he descended the steps by himself, weaving among the spectators, trying to ignore their comments, whether supportive or otherwise. He simply wanted to get this over with.

            When he reached the base of the shaft, a hush fell over the stepwell. Yemi directed him to a small bench that sat across from his station slightly in front of the six other jurors and to their left. The African remained standing, his jaw set, dark eyes sharp and unreadable, judicial.

            “Bane, you are accused of murder. How do you plead?”

            Although he had considered his words and his defense all night, Bane still had to force the words out with great care. “Not guilty by reason of self-defense,” he said in a tone stronger than he had anticipated. He had heard these words spill from the mouths of other accused men before, but this time he hoped the jury actually believed them.

            “Very well. After witnesses are called, you will be allowed to address the jury. Until then you are not allowed to speak; you are not allowed to argue with any witnesses during their testimony. Do you understand?”

            Bane nodded and settled on the bench.

            Yemi sat in a crude wooden chair and consulted a list in his hand, then he raised his voice for the whole shaft to hear, “First witness called is Charles Greyson!”

            Bane’s guts twisted with dread as Greyson made his way down to the pool, a smug expression on his face. When the American stood before the jury, he tossed Bane a sarcastic grin.

            Yemi prompted, “Tell us what you saw last night.”

            “I watched the fight then went back to my cell. When I got there I found the Vulture dead inside. He’d been knifed in the neck and bled out. And that ain’t all I found in my cell. I found Bane’s stuffed bear. And we all know that thing is with him all the time.”

            “Did you see Bane?” Yemi asked.

            “No, course not. He hightailed it outta there. His bloody tracks proved it. Not a man’s prints.” He pointed. “You can see the blood still on his shoes. And besides, like I said, that bear is his. Everyone knows _that_.”

            “How did Bane and the Vulture get inside your cell?”

            Greyson readily shrugged. “I musta forgot to lock it.”

            Someone from above shouted, “I say bullshit, Greyson, you fucking cunt!” Others echoed their agreement.

            A couple of the jurors exchanged skeptical looks. Greyson scowled threateningly at them.

            “Did you invite them there?” Yemi asked.

            “Course not.”

            “Then why were they there?”

            “How the hell should I know? Maybe the kid lured him there while everyone was at the fight.”

            “That’s a lie!” Bane said, getting to his feet.

            “Silence,” Yemi snapped. “Sit down, and hold your tongue, boy, or you will lose your privilege to speak later.”

            Fists clenched, Bane slowly obeyed, all the while holding Greyson’s challenging stare.

            “Do you have anything else to say, Greyson?” Yemi growled.

            “Yeah. That chess set that belonged to the Vulture was there. We all know how the Vulture guarded that thing like a mother hen with her chicks. I figure the boy got tired of being the Vulture’s bitch and wanted that chess set to hisself so he shanked him.”

            Yemi’s eyes narrowed. “Then why would Bane leave it in your cell?”

            Greyson shrugged, unconcerned by the logic. “I figure the boy panicked and left it behind. Or else he figured when the Vulture was found dead and him nowhere around and innocent he would inherit the damn thing.”

            Anger built in Bane so strongly that he nearly leapt at Greyson, but by chance he looked up and saw Hans standing one level above, the man’s attention directly upon him. Slowly Hans shook his head, and Bane forced himself to breathe and relax his tight muscles.

            “If you’ve nothing further to say,” Yemi’s voice drew Bane back to Greyson, “then you are excused.”

            As he left, Greyson sent Bane one final, quick, triumphant look.

            Doctor Assad was called next and testified as to the state in which he found the body and the cause of death.

            Yemi held up Bane’s knife, the Vulture’s blood still coating it. “It was you who found this knife in Bane’s cell, was it not?”

            “Yes.”

            “When?”

            “Last night after the Vulture’s body was brought to the stepwell.”

            “And the blade was bloody then?”

            “Yes.”

            “Fresh blood?”

            “I cannot say in all honesty. The blood on the blade was dry when I found it.”

            “Where exactly did you find it?”

            “In Bane’s brazier when I went to light a fire.”

            “Did he tell you why it was there?”

            “No.”

            “Did you ask?”

            “No. I am no man’s prosecutor.”

            Four other witnesses were called, all attesting to what they had seen in Greyson’s cell when the body was found—the dead man, the chess set, and Osito. As each testified, Bane watched the faces of the jurors. All were attentive except Ramzi whose gaze often wandered up the sides of the shaft. Bane had a feeling Ramzi had decided his fate before the proceedings had even begun.

            At last it was Bane’s turn to speak, and as he stood to face the jury the variety of conversations from among the audience died away. His gaze traveled upward, pausing briefly upon Hans and Assad, who offered a strained, encouraging nod. Then he caught sight of Abrams leaning against a stone pillar in front of his cell, half concealed but watching. Bane had hoped that Abrams would volunteer to testify about the Vulture’s true nature, but of course anything he offered would have been conjecture since he had never seen the Vulture act on his impulses. And Abrams, Bane figured, would never publicly admit to his personal experiences with such men.

            Bane gathered himself. He focused on his breathing as Hans had taught him, keeping his respiration deep and rhythmic, using his diaphragm in the hopes of projecting his voice for all to hear, though there was nothing he wanted more than to say not a word about what he had done to that wretched man.

            “As you have all heard, the Vulture’s chess set was found with his body. Most of you know that he would arrange matches for me. Yesterday he told me Greyson wanted to play. So we went there just as the fight was starting. We went together like we always did.”

            “Like you always did,” Ramzi interrupted in his halting English. “You spent much time with that Vulture, didn’t you, boy?”

            “Not always. Just since my mother died and we made the chess set.”

            “You liked him, didn’t you?” Ramzi smiled slightly, leadingly.

            “It wasn’t about liking him,” Bane insisted, trying to hide his irritation. “I was good at chess; I won things for us.”

            “Us? Yes, you worked for him. You _did_ things for him. You protected him.”

            “No. I just—”

            “That day here by the pool when the Vulture and me had a…argument…you protected him.”

            “You took his—”

            “Ramzi,” Yemi raised a forestalling hand, “enough. Let the boy tell his story. You can ask your questions after.”

            Bane nodded gratefully at Yemi, but Ramzi’s incursion had succeeded in rattling him. Mentally he scrambled to recover. “Like I said, we went to Greyson’s cell, but he wasn’t there, and his door was unlocked. I didn’t think we should go in without him there, but the Vulture did anyway. So I went to set up the chess board. That was when he grabbed me.”

            Bane faltered, stared at his feet, at the blood on his shoes, swallowed. The whole shaft was silent, as if no one else was there, yet he could feel each man’s presence, attention trained on him, ears straining. For some reason his thoughts went to those among them who used to stop at his cell when his mother was alive and make their licentious comments to her. He sensed that same base selfishness in the tension of the shaft. They wanted to hear the details of what the Vulture might have done to him, wanted their twisted suspicions confirmed, wanted to bait him as they had baited his mother, to let someone else bear their frustrations. Within that realization he knew that he could embellish what the Vulture had done, give them what they wanted to hear and thus make a stronger case for self-defense. But his sense of pride would not allow it, for it would only weaken him in these men’s eyes. Weakness had left him open to the Vulture’s exploitation; he would not allow it to happen again.

            “He threw me on Greyson’s charpoy,” Bane said at last, forcing his tone to be strong and to carry to all listening.

            A voice cried out from high above, “Did he fuck you, boy?” followed by raucous laughter.

            Bane’s face burned with anger and humiliation, but he addressed only the jury: “He tried to rip my clothes off. I fought to get away, but…because of being sick I wasn’t strong enough. That’s when I cut him.”

            “Not just cut him,” Ramzi interjected. “Killed him. You sliced his jugular, like the doctor said. How…concise for someone so weak and frightened.”

            “I didn’t _try_ to kill him. I just wanted to get him off me; I wanted to get away.”

            Another juror spoke up, a young Indian named Patel. Bane had beaten him in chess shortly before his illness. “You often accompany the doctor on his rounds, don’t you, Bane?”

            Unbalanced by this odd question, Bane stammered, “Yes.”

            “You know your way around the human body better than most of us because of what the doctor has taught you, don’t you? You know where the major arteries are, yes?”

            “Well…I suppose…yes.”

            “So,” Ramzi said, “you knew where you could do the most damage.”

            “I didn’t think about that. I just jabbed the knife back at him; he was on top of me; I couldn’t see him…not really. I was on my stomach.”

            “Maybe,” Ramzi said, “it wasn’t the Vulture who set you up, but the other way around. You kill him, then the chess set is yours, like Greyson said. No need to split your winnings, yes?”

            “No.” Bane struggled to keep his temper, to not allow Ramzi to bait him into saying what he wanted to hear. “If I wanted to kill him for the chess set, why would I have left it behind?”

            Someone above him laughed, and another prisoner yelled, “He’s got you there, Ramzi, you stupid son of a bitch!”

            Color rose to Ramzi’s swarthy face, and he shouted something in Arabic at the man.

            Yemi got to his feet, a hand raised for silence. “Are there any other questions from the jurors for the defendant?”

            “I am not done,” Ramzi growled.

            Yemi appeared irritated but gestured for Ramzi to proceed.

            “The boy said the Vulture tried to take his clothes off. Had the man done anything like this before?”

            “No,” Bane replied.

            “Then what were you afraid of?”

            Dumbfounded, Bane stared at him.

            “Well?” Ramzi mockingly raised his eyebrows.

            Unwittingly Bane’s gaze rose to Abrams, but Abrams faded back into the shadows and did not reappear.

            “I had heard things about the Vulture,” Bane managed. “Someone warned me that he might try to hurt me.”

            “Someone?” Ramzi sneered. “Who is this someone? He should testify to what you are claiming.”

            Bane scowled. “No.”

            “Why not?” Ramzi badgered. “Is it because you are lying about this ‘someone’?”

            “No.”

            “Then why won’t he speak?” With a melodramatic gesture, Ramzi appeared to search the audience where men looked at one another, murmuring.

            Bane struggled for something to say that would blunt Ramzi’s accusations, but he could not betray Abrams’s confidentiality. He owed the man at least that much, even if his own silence led to a guilty verdict.

            Yemi spoke up, this time with dark authority, his stare boring into Ramzi. “Are you done now?”

            A faint sound echoed from far above them. Those prisoners who sat on the highest parts of the stepwell fell silent, and their faces turned toward the distant sunlight. Like a cascading waterfall, the silence grew, level upon level, drifting downward until even the jurors lifted their gazes. Bane held a hand up to block the harshest of the light in an effort to see the mouth of the shaft.

            Blurred images, the illusory sounds of men’s voices from the surface. Gray movement against the hazy sky. The vague outlines of men peering into the pit. Then two figures swung over the lip of the shaft, harnesses attached to lines. Protruding from the silhouettes of their rappelling forms were the unmistakable shapes of automatic weapons.


	21. Chapter 21

            As the two soldiers descended, the prisoners in the stepwell got to their feet. Yemi quickly moved among the jurors with small slips of wrinkled paper and a nub of a pencil, instructing them to write down their verdicts.

            “Hurry,” Yemi ordered. “We must finish this before they arrive.”

            Bane knew the rules as well as any other prisoner: if trial proceedings were interrupted for any length of time, the accused would have to be retried by a new jury. Allowing any time to lapse between hearing testimony and a verdict being reached opened the door to jury tampering. Watching the soldiers’ approach, Bane laced his fingers together to keep them from shaking, willing the soldiers to slow their descent, for he did not want to endure a second trial.

            As the jurors scrawled their verdicts, the spectators moved toward the corridors, but most tarried along the fringes of the shaft, for they wanted to hear the ruling before they were banished from the stepwell—a normal precaution demanded by their jailers while supplies were lowered into the pit to avoid a mob scene. Others did not wait but retreated to the darkness of the corridors or their cells, for anyone who defied the soldiers and remained in the stepwell risked a bullet.

            Once the slips were collected, Yemi read each aloud.

            “Guilty… Not guilty…. Not guilty…” Each pronouncement brought murmurs of approval or disapproval from those left in the stepwell. Bane held his breath as Yemi continued. “Not guilty… Guilty.” Yemi’s attention shot upward to check the soldiers’ progress for an instant before he looked back to the papers. “Not guilty.”

            Bane breathed a sigh of relief. The final slip was read: “Not guilty.”

            Yemi nodded to him, a half-hidden smile escaping the African’s lips. “Go,” he said to the jurors with another glance up the shaft. Bane doubted his strength to stand, so he hesitated a moment longer. As if understanding, Yemi stepped over and slipped one hand under his arm to help him stand. With his other hand he returned Bane’s knife.

            Close to his ear Yemi said, “A new prisoner is being sent down after the supplies.”

            “Hans told me about him. Said it’s a British mercenary.”

            “It would appear things have changed since Hans told you that.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “You will see soon enough.”

            Yemi, Hans, and the doctor were the only men allowed in the stepwell whenever supplies were lowered into the pit. They in turn were responsible for distribution among the population, a process that involved allotments being assigned to different cellblocks and collected by one man elected from each block, someone less corruptible than others; in the case of Bane’s cellblock, this was Doctor Assad. The cellblock captain also bartered on behalf of his mates for any additional items the soldiers brought with them to illicitly sell. In addition the soldiers also received payment for the delivery of any specific goods that a prisoner may have requested during the previous resupply. That was how Bane’s mother had acquired Osito.

            As Bane made his way back to his cell, he passed the doctor. Assad’s smile reflected Bane’s own relief over the verdict.

            When he entered his cell, he noticed that the Vulture’s meager belongings had been removed from the adjacent cell. Those items, according to the pit’s custom, would be auctioned off to the other inmates. In the meantime they were no doubt secured in Doctor Assad’s cell.

            The realization dawned on Bane that perhaps the new prisoner would be occupying the Vulture’s space. The cells that were located closest to the shaft were much coveted by most of the prisoners who dwelled in the corridors. Those who were fortunate enough to live near the shaft had paid dearly for those cells upon their arrival in the pit, one of many methods of extortion used by their mysterious jailers. Bane had not known if his mother had been given the privilege of this cell due to consideration for her sex or if money had indeed changed hands upon her arrival. Of course, his continued residency after her death irritated men like Greyson who felt the cell should be given to those who could either pay for it or who had been jailed the longest. Many of the latter, however, had either lost most of their senses and no longer concerned themselves with such luxuries or now preferred the accustomed dimness of the corridors to the filtered, torturously tempting light of the shaft.

            “I heard the verdict,” Abrams voice drew Bane’s attention. The man was once again mending his clothes, but he paused long enough to glance at Bane and say, “I appreciate you not dragging me into that.”

            Bane gave him a tight smile and nodded. Not wanting to expound upon the subject of the trial, he changed the topic. “A new prisoner is arriving today.”

            “So I heard.”

            When Abrams said nothing more, Bane busied himself with cleaning the knife. Though pleased and relieved with the verdict of his trial, it made the task of removing the Vulture’s blood no less unpleasant. The effort required water from his pitcher and the scraping power of his fingernails which in turn became clogged with the dark matter. He would go to the pool later and try to wash off as much of the dried blood from his shirt as possible. Perhaps there would be some clothing among the supplies today.

            As he worked, he tried not to think about last night, tried not to feel the Vulture’s hands upon him or remember the man’s desperate plea as he died. Bane wondered about Osito’s fate and figured the bear had already served as fuel for Greyson’s brazier along with the chess set. Greyson could not openly sell the set, for anything that belonged to the Vulture would rightfully be auctioned, so no doubt he had burned it as soon as possible last night.

            Bane paid little attention to the activities in the shaft with the lowering of crates and large sacks, of the comings and goings of the cellblock captains. Often he was allowed to help with the allocation and given an extra day’s ration of rice for his efforts, but no doubt Doctor Assad felt he was still too weak for such work today or perhaps too vulnerable after the events of the past twenty-four hours. Either way Bane was content to remain in his cell until the long process was finally over.

            The soldiers, however, did not leave immediately after all business was transacted. To Bane’s surprise two more soldiers joined the pair already in the shaft. With their arrival accentuated by a decidedly menacing wave of their weapons, Hans, Yemi, and the other prisoners still in the shaft dispersed. Only Doctor Assad remained, and his eyes were now fixed upward. The soldiers stationed themselves at the top four corners of the stepwell, guns aimed toward the corridors. Curious about their strange vigilance, Bane stood at the door of his cell and looked as far up the shaft as he could. Why would a new prisoner require such caution from the soldiers?

            He strained to see movement through the harsh glare of sunlight bouncing off the far wall of the shaft. Squinting and using one hand to deflect the light, he at last caught sight of the prisoner being gradually lowered. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, for surely they were playing tricks on him. The outline of the prisoner was unusual. What was he wearing? If that was a _shemagh_ , it did not appear to drape around the prisoner but instead flowed downward, longer than most and almost stiff as if made of a rich cloth, then its edges blended with the rest of the attire. Most prisoners arrived stripped of their regular garments and instead clothed in the same type of ragged tunic and pants that Bane wore. This newcomer, however, was different. Why would such a deviation be allowed?

            Then, as the prisoner came ever closer to the stepwell, Bane realized exactly what he was seeing.

            This prisoner was no mercenary.


	22. Chapter 22

            When the new prisoner’s feet first touched down next to Doctor Assad, the inmates in the cells that faced the stepwell sent up a racket of catcalls, whistles, and shouts. The noise shook Bane to the core as memories of similar reactions to his mother instantly attacked him. He let go of the bars and took a step back, as if this would somehow muffle the animalistic sounds. Word passed from stepwell cells down through the corridors like a great flood. Even from this distance Bane sensed fear in the young woman as she stared about her new home, assaulted by its horrifying anthem. Doctor Assad put a protective arm around her shoulders and hurried her away from the stepwell, the soldiers still intent upon the corridors for any movement.

            Bane stood dumbfounded as Assad rushed the woman into the Vulture’s old cell and locked the door behind them, his face flushed with agitation, the woman pallid and trembling. She appeared younger than Bane’s mother, somewhere in her mid-twenties perhaps, and slighter of build; delicate and graceful. Behind the edge of her beautiful, long _shemagh_ , the smooth skin of her oval face shone with perspiration. Her eyes—pale brown like her complexion—stared wide and frightened around her as the doctor tried to ease her concern with quiet words in Arabic which Bane could not hear over the cries of the prisoners. The inmate in the cell next to hers grinned lewdly at her and started to speak to her, but Assad cursed him back from the bars then apologized to the woman.

            Assad moved her charpoy from the far side of the cell closer to Bane’s cell and encouraged her to sit while he took from her shoulder a simple canvas bag that appeared to hold her belongings. Then he set about starting a fire in the brazier as around them some semblance of calm crept in, the outcries settling to an electrified background murmur. Bane could see the soldiers starting their climb up the shaft. Once they were gone prisoners would be coming from every corner of the pit to see the newcomer.

            Bane remained near the rear of his cell, not wanting to move too suddenly for fear of frightening the woman further. He glanced over at Abrams who had been silent throughout her arrival. The man had set aside his sewing to stare mutely at the woman, captivated. Then when he noticed Bane looking at him, he cleared his throat and quickly turned away.

            “We were not quite prepared for you,” Assad continued in Arabic to her. “We only received word this morning. Give me just a little time and we will provide you with a bit of privacy by hanging a couple of blankets.”

            Bane considered offering her the two blankets that used to shield his mother, but something stopped him from doing so, something that had no bearing on his own physical comfort. Although he certainly understood the doctor’s concern for her, he found himself wanting to be able to see her, to talk to her, not be prevented from doing so by a barrier of any kind. He wanted her to know that she need not fear him like the others here. Yet what would she think of him when she noticed the blood on his shirt? With that in mind, he put on his _shemagh_ and draped it so it hid the stains.

            “There,” the doctor said, straightening. “That will warm you. I will fetch you something to eat. Are you hungry?”

            She shook her head, eyes roaming restlessly over her surroundings.

            Assad touched her shoulder and offered an ineffectual smile. “I will not speak like a fool and say that you will get used to this place, but you must learn to endure it…as we all do. I will help you in any way I can.”

            At last she found her voice and murmured her thanks.

            “They will come,” he warned her. “There is nothing I can do about that. Everyone is free to move about the prison. Except you, my dear. For your own safety, you must stay locked in your cell. I am sorry. Anything you need, I will bring to you.” His attention went to Bane, and he crooked a finger to draw him out of the shadows and over to the bars. “If I am not available, Bane will help you.”

            The young woman followed Assad’s gaze. A small gasp escaped her, a hand drifting to her mouth, slender fingers touching full lips.

            “He is just a boy,” she said in astonishment.

            “Let us speak in English,” Assad encouraged with a small smile. “Bane is learning Arabic, but he is not yet fluent.”

            An inexplicable shyness sprang up in Bane, and he avoided her shocked gaze.

            “Bane, this is Melisande.”

            Bane forced his attention back to her and managed a fleeting smile. “Hello.”

            Melisande, still too stunned to respond, flicked her questioning gaze to the doctor, but Assad turned to leave. Once outside he locked the door.

            “I will be back shortly,” he said.

            At a complete loss, Bane did not know what to do with himself. Should he speak to her? Should he sit or move farther away? Did she fear him?

            Before he could reach a decision, rough voices sounded from down the corridors, coming closer until forms separated from the dimness and caught the light from the shaft. Predatory expressions—eyes gleaming, mouths open, lewd grins—guttural laughter. At least a dozen prisoners halted before Melisande’s cell, jockeyed for position at the bars, all talking at once, some conversationally, others crudely.

            “Gola, you lucky bastard,” one said to the Pakistani in the cell next to Melisande’s. “Don’t suppose you’d want to trade cells with me, eh?”

            Gola grinned. “Not on your fucking life.”

            Melisande drew her _shemagh_ closer around her face as if this would somehow shield her from their rapacious stares.

            “She’s a beauty,” another said. “What about you, Bane? I’d make it worth your while if you gave up your cell.”

            Bane scowled at them. “Why don’t you all just leave her alone? She doesn’t need to have you standing about, drooling on yourselves. Go on.”

            They laughed.

            “Open that door, bitch, and I’ll do more than drool,” one said with his hand on his bulging crotch.

            “She’s too good for you,” the man next to him said. “Look at her clothes. Comes from money, I’d say.”

            Gola sneered, “She wouldn’t be here if she had money.”

            “Money enough for this cell,” one countered.

            “I said leave her alone,” Bane shot, moving to the corner of his cell closest to them.

            “Or what?” Ramzi said, stepping from behind the others and toward Bane. “Going to slice my neck open like you did the Vulture?” He laughed in derision, echoed by the others.

            Bane’s gaze flashed toward Melisande. She looked at him in disbelief.

            “Oh, yes, bitch,” Ramzi said, “watch out for this one. Cold-blooded murderer, he is.”

            Bane’s hand flashed between the bars and grabbed Ramzi by the testicles, used what little strength he could marshal to clench tightly and twist. With a strangled cry, Ramzi crumpled into an amazingly pale heap, gasping as the other men fell against each other in fits of laughter, Abrams joining in as well. Bane retreated out of Ramzi’s reach.

            The men’s mirth and Ramzi’s agony seemed to sidetrack their lust, and soon most of them drifted off. Ramzi gradually struggled to his knees, eyes blazing darkly at Bane who stared back with jaw set and fists clenched.

            “Little bastard,” the man rasped, spit flying. “You best watch yourself next time I see you out of your cage.”

            Bane simply stared back at him, fingers restlessly twitching.

            Ramzi’s attention sliced back to Melisande with equal malice before he shuffled away, still bent with pain.


	23. Chapter 23

            When Bane turned from watching Ramzi depart, he found Melisande scrutinizing him with tearful eyes, tears she tried to conceal, but she looked away before he could successfully read what was in her gaze. They were beautiful eyes, large and clear with innocence…or at least what Bane assumed was innocence since they lacked the dark, defensive mask of those who dwelled in the pit. He wondered what she saw in his own gaze. Did he appear outwardly different now that he had killed a man, now that he had assumed the mantle of violence like those with whom he shared the pit?

            Gola and Abrams had both fallen silent, the latter returning to his mending, the former retreating to his charpoy where he sat, staring at Melisande. When Gola’s hand slipped inside the front of his pants, Bane moved quickly to his charpoy to distract Melisande, voicing the first words that came to mind.

            “I’m sorry you had to listen to them. But, like the doctor said, everyone is free to leave their cells; well, except when supplies come like today. But after a while—once they are used to you being here—they won’t be quite so bad.” Not necessarily true, of course, but there was no need for her to know that yet.

            Melisande pushed the _shemagh_ back from her head, revealing lustrous brunette hair that trailed down her back in a loose braid. Gola moaned. Bane shot him a lethal glare, but the man’s eyes rolled back and closed. When Melisande started to turn toward Gola, Bane jumped back into his discourse.

            “You can trust Doctor Assad. He’s a good man. And there are a few others, but even those… Well…like the doctor said you must not leave your cell, no matter what some will say to you, and—trust me—they will tell you all sorts of lies.”

            She frowned and laced her fingers together in her lap, sniffed away the last of her tears. Her _abaya_ , though not intricately designed like her _shemagh_ , matched the base color of her headwear—a dusky olive green. Made of a heavy satin silk fabric, both the _abaya_ and the _shemagh_ were trimmed in rich maroon, inlaid with an intricate design of shimmering golden thread. Bane longed to touch the foreign material. His mother had told him of such fabric, though she had never owned such finery. What he could see of Melisande’s blouse, its design was far simpler than the other garments, matching the _abaya_ in hue. She wore a pair of soft, almost slipper-like fawn-colored shoes, which Bane knew would not last long on the unforgiving stone pavement of the pit.

            “But apparently the doctor thinks _you_ are trustworthy,” Melisande probed, “since he said you would help me.”

            Bane blushed. “Of course; you can trust me.”

            He glanced furiously over at Gola who made no attempt to moderate his scandalous noises. Bane noticed Melisande’s uncomfortable expression as she turned more fully toward him, presenting her back to Gola, her eyelashes fluttering in consternation.

            Bane pushed on, raising his voice slightly. “I’m not like the others; I’m only here because I was born here.”

            Her eyes widened. “Born here? You mean I’m not the only woman in this prison?”

            He frowned. “Well, now you are. My mother died a few months ago.”

            Melisande’s expression fell. “I am very sorry to hear that.”

            Bane noticed a small mole on the left side of her chin. It was the only mark on an otherwise flawless complexion.

            “Was your mother a prisoner? Or was she married to one of the inmates?”

            “She was a prisoner.” He easily read her deep curiosity, and judging Gola to be almost at the end of his deviance—which Bane knew from past experience would be perversely loud—he rushed to maintain Melisande’s attention, wondering where the hell the doctor was with those blankets. “But she wasn’t a criminal. She was condemned for being in love with my father; that’s all. He was supposed to marry someone else…an arranged marriage, my mother called it. But he didn’t love that woman; he loved my mother and she loved him.”

            With his nerves still on edge, Bane nearly jumped when Gola burst out with a culminating exclamation. Melisande’s face flushed a deep red, and she appeared not to know where to look, her fingers moving restlessly against one another in her lap. Bane bit back a loud curse for the man who smiled to himself like a fool and sprawled across his small charpoy, lost in his own fantasy.

            Flustered, Bane mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

            Melisande’s focus returned to him, and a smile spread her lips, though he was unsure if he had amused her or if Gola somehow had. He admired her adaptive spirit and hoped he was helping to lessen the shock of her new surroundings.

            Bane leaned toward her and spoke so their neighbors could not hear. “Gola’s actually the more harmless of the lot here.” Just then he caught her full scent for the first time. He knew not what it was, but it was pleasant and sweet. He remembered the colorful photographs of flowers that he had studied in an issue of _National Geographic_ and conjectured that her scent was from one of those plants, but which? Could he ask her or would that not be appropriate? Considering the audible assaults she had just weathered, he decided to keep his question to himself for now.

            Still smiling in her disarming way, Melisande asked, “You seem much older than you look, Bane. How old are you?”

            “I just turned fourteen.”

            The smile faded into near sadness. “And you’ve lived here your whole life?”

            “Yes.” He said it almost proudly, though he had no idea why he infused such an emotion into the word. Perhaps, he surmised, he wanted her to think that she, too, could successfully endure this place.

            “Why won’t they let you go if it was your mother who was sentenced here?”

            Bane remembered Doctor Assad’s words after his mother’s death. How could he explain all of it to her? Would she believe him? Maybe even now she figured everything he said was a lie. So he settled upon, “I have nowhere else to go.”

            “What about your father? Won’t he help you?”

            Bane squirmed, struggling for the words, but he was rescued by the return of Doctor Assad with blankets and food. Other prisoners filed past, all of them eying Melisande, but none of them lingered, for they would not want to hazard incurring the doctor’s displeasure; after all, the next time they fell ill Assad could very well withhold treatment.

            Casting an unhappy glance at Gola’s snoring form, the doctor set a small loaf of bread along with cheese and fruit on the low table that was left from the Vulture’s occupation. “I’ll bring more later,” he said. “But for now let’s get these blankets hung, so our friend Gola can amuse himself in other ways.”

            Bane remained on his charpoy while Melisande offered her assistance to the doctor. It delighted him to see her active, not simply crouching on her charpoy in paralyzed shock as some prisoners did when they first were sent here. If she did come from wealth, like the prisoners had guessed, it was apparent she did not expect others to do everything for her. Yet if she did have money, why had she been sent here? Well, he consoled himself, there would be plenty of time to learn all of her mysteries.

            Once the first blanket was hung, Assad moved toward Bane’s side. He glanced apologetically at Bane with the second blanket in hand and started to step onto the charpoy to reach high up the bars. Bane frowned and turned away.

            “Wait, Doctor,” Melisande said. When Bane looked hopefully over his shoulder, she smiled, though he was unsure if the smile was meant for him or Assad. “Bane and I were just getting to know one another. It wouldn’t seem right having to talk through a blanket. Would it, Bane?”

            Surprised, Bane could only shake his head.

            “Perhaps,” she said, “we can hang the blanket later, yes?”


	24. Chapter 24

            The dream was cloaked in darkness. Complete. Encompassing. Inescapable. Within the void Bane heard his mother’s voice. She cried out to him, over and over, but no matter how hard he tried, no matter how he cocked his head in an attempt to judge the direction, he could not find her. He kept his hands outstretched as he frantically searched. He had no voice with which to answer her frightened calls. Behind him the Vulture’s weighty presence pressed him ever forward. Although the Vulture made no sound, Bane knew the man was close, searching for him as he was searching for his mother.

            The air was heavy, sultry, drenching Bane in sweat. He could now hear his own labored respiration as his pace increased, but above this ragged cadence he heard the Vulture as he had heard him in Greyson’s cell—his breathing influenced by lust, not fatigue. Bane again attempted to call to his mother, but still no sound passed his lips. Fear overtook him as the Vulture gained ground. If he could but reach her…together they could thwart the man…

            The Vulture caught hold of Bane’s clothing, tugged and pulled, but Bane managed to flail at the man and break free. His voice burst out of him now, echoing in the ebony cocoon, crying out to his mother, but she did not answer, nor did she call to him anymore. He tripped and fell, completely disoriented now that there was no voice to follow. Striking out wildly in case the Vulture was within reach, he scrambled to his feet, began to run again. But he misjudged his direction and slammed into the Vulture. The man laughed, his hands gripping Bane’s arms, his breath close, hot, and putrid. Bane struggled but could not dislodge the Vulture’s hold. Panicking, he shouted for his mother, over and over…

            “Bane…Bane, wake up, God damn it!” Abrams’s distant voice, drawing him from the abyss.

            Then another voice, a woman’s, soft yet urgent…but not his mother’s. “Wake up, Bane.”

            With a gasping jerk, Bane sat up on his charpoy, staring, staring out toward where the shaft should be, waited for that ever so subtle shade of lesser darkness where the outside world looked down upon them. His keen nose brought her scent to him, settled him, made reality tangible.

            Her words penetrated the rattle of his heart, “It’s all right. You were having a nightmare.”

            Abrams grumbled something, then his blanket rustled and his charpoy protested as he settled against it again, saying no more. Nightmares, while certainly not uncommon in the pit, were nothing more than a nuisance to those trying to navigate the night without experiencing one themselves.

            Trembling, the air chilling his sweat, Bane left his charpoy, nervous energy causing him to pace.

            Melisande quietly asked, “Are you all right?”

            The darkness and his fresh fear played tricks on him, and he almost believed that the question had been spoken by his mother. But of course that was an insane wish, nothing more. Agitated, he fled his cell without answering her.

            Only when he entered the shaft could he recover his breath. He paused at the top of the steps, bent over, eyes closed, ears ringing. Waited, focused on his inhalation, counted it, expanded his chest, slowed it until finally it receded into the background along with his calming heartbeat. He opened his eyes, stared down into the distant pool. During the day he had gone there to scrub the Vulture’s blood from his shirt and shoes but had had little success. The water had merely lessened the density of the stains; they would remain with him as a constant reminder of that horrible moment.

            Tiny glints of light now reflected in the pool’s surface. Was he imagining them? He slipped down to sit on the stone, his legs dangling over a ledge, and reared his head back to look at the unattainable sky. Yes, there was light there—a moon he could not see beyond the rim of the shaft. But it was not the moon’s glow that had reached the pool. No, a large star directly above somehow managed to throw its illumination into the depths. Not a star, he told himself, remembering his studies. That had to be a planet, but he could not recall which one.

            He used to come here often after his mother’s death, those nights when sleep offered no comfort in its elusiveness and instead more often brought terror, as it had tonight. He had not dreamt of her in several weeks. Why now? Was it because of the Vulture or perhaps because of Melisande?

            Sighing, he lay upon his back, letting the pavement steal the nightmare’s fever heat from him. He closed his eyes for a moment to center himself then opened them to admire the diamond sharpness of the stars, to invite the light and imagine that he could manipulate it, multiple it until it filled the shaft and reached back into the farthest corners of the prison. He imagined climbing the shaft, imagined he could feel the stone outcroppings beneath his fingers, his feet, could feel the increasing movement of air the closer he drew to the surface. Near the top of the shaft the walls were relatively smooth save for flat, narrow ledges just wide enough for a man to stand upon. These ledges, each one higher than the previous, were spaced at staggered intervals that appeared impossible to navigate. Deadly, yawning spaces. The few men who had made it to that lofty altitude had invariably found only open air when they attempted to leap from one ledge to the next.

            Bane closed his eyes and pictured himself upon the first ledge. So far to jump with so little room to get a running start. He would need to start practicing.

            He thought of Melisande. If he were to escape and toss down the ropes for others to use, what would become of her? She could not leave her cell while the others were still in the prison. Would Doctor Assad wait with her and help her climb? Bane frowned. Assad was no young man. Yet perhaps the doctor could climb first then help hoist her up. Considering further, Bane decided that when the time came—when he was strong enough to climb—he would find someone trustworthy, perhaps Hans, to assist Melisande.

            He rested a few minutes longer in the stepwell, focusing on his future plans in order to beat back memories of the Vulture’s death. Once he felt sufficiently renewed and in charge of his own emotions again, he trailed back to his cell, moving as silently as the moon across the sky.


	25. Chapter 25

            Before Bane reached his cell, a strange sound drew him to a halt. Through the blind darkness he tried to identify it. A soft noise, barely perceptible. Weeping. He was certain now, though he had never heard a woman weep before. Although his mother had shed tears, especially once she knew her illness would take her from him, they had been silent tears, trailing down her cheeks until she wiped them away in a vain attempt to hide them from him.

            When Bane’s key in the lock announced his return, Melisande made a gulping noise then stifled all other sound save a final sniff. Her blankets rustled, then she lay still as Bane padded back to his charpoy. He sensed her listening to his movements and felt her gaze upon him through the night. Why did she look to him? Was she concerned that he had heard her sorrow? Did she already know that any sort of weakness should not be displayed in the pit, even behind cell bars?

            Lying down, Bane wondered what had caused her tears. Had his shouts during the nightmare upset her? Or was it simply the crushing oblivion of night that had drawn her tears?

            Impulsively, softly Bane said, “Melisande?”

            She hesitated before whispering, “Yes?”

            “Have you ever been away from home before, from your family?”

            “No.”

            Bane tried to imagine what that experience must be like but realized he already knew, for surely what she felt was little different from what he had suffered upon his mother’s death. He searched for a way to console her. His fingers twitched with a longing to reach out for her hand as he and his mother had done whenever one of them was troubled. Yet even if their charpoys were within reach of one another, surely his unsolicited touch would only serve to frighten her, especially in the dark. He reminded himself that her eyes would not be accustomed to such a complete lack of light. Did she look toward the shaft as a way to combat the encroaching blackness of her cell? He wished he could take her out there to see the stars, to help her realize that she had not been buried alive.

            “Someday,” he said, “I’m going to escape. Everyone will be free then. You can go back to your family.”

            Her voice sounded even smaller this time: “I don’t want to go back to my family. I want to be with my husband. He’s the only family I have now.”

            “What do you mean? Did something happen to your parents?”

            “No.” She drew in a quivering breath before she could continue. “I was married in secret…to a man of whom my parents did not approve. A European; his father was French, his mother English.”

            Remembering Hans’s words, Bane asked, “A mercenary?” then felt foolish for his impetuosity.

            “How did you know that?”

            “We were told…before you came…that the new prisoner was a British mercenary. But that can’t be who you’re talking about.”

            “In truth, it is.”

            “But—?”

            “When my father discovered my marriage, he had my husband condemned to this pit. But…I couldn’t let Henri suffer for my indiscretions. I begged my father to set him free. He said the only way he would free him would be if I served the sentence instead. I don’t think he expected me to say that I would.”

            The concept momentarily staggered Bane. “But why would he let you do that?”

            “My father is a powerful man. And with great power comes great pride. In the presence of many others he had set the option before me, and they witnessed his words and my acceptance. He would never lose face by rescinding his decree or by allowing me—a mere woman—to take back my words. Even my mother knew better than to argue on my behalf, though I believe in private she did.” Melisande grew even quieter. “At least I would like to believe so.”

            “Why didn’t your husband stop them?”

            “He didn’t know. I wouldn’t let them tell him because I knew if they did then he would never let me take his place and he would end up here after all. He was simply told that his sentence had been commuted to exile because of my petition to my father.”

            Her courage and selflessness left Bane speechless for some time. Her story drew him in, made him feel as a kindred spirit, and he found himself saying, “You asked me why my father doesn’t help me.”

            “Yes.”

            “He doesn’t know I exist. When my mother was sent here, they told my father that she had died; that way he would never search for her.”

            “Who would do such a thing?”

            “My mother never knew for certain, but she said it had to be either my father’s father or the parents of the woman he was supposed to marry. Like your father, they are people with wealth and power who can do as they please because of it. My mother had neither. She was an English diplomat’s daughter, but when her father was killed she stayed in the region because she had no family in England and little means to return there; her father’s murderers had gained access to his money.”

            “You said your father doesn’t know about you. Your mother never told him that she was pregnant?”

            “She hadn’t told him because she feared his father or the others would learn of it and kill the both of us.”

            “So she protected you like I protected my husband.”

            “Yes.”

            “And here we both are.”

            “Yes.” Heavy silence pressed between them until Bane continued, “But we won’t die here. Like I said, I’m going to escape once I’m strong enough to make the climb.”

            “The climb? Up the shaft, you mean?”

            “Of course.”

            “But that must be five hundred feet and the walls are straight up.”

            “There are ways to climb it.”

            “Has anyone tried?”

            “Oh, yes. Many.”

            “Have any succeeded?”

            He frowned, thought of the Vulture’s discouraging comments. “Not yet,” he told her. “But perhaps I will be the first.”

            “Aren’t you afraid?”

            “No,” he lied.

            Her soft chuckle surprised Bane, and he stiffened with wounded pride, thinking she was making game of him. “Bane, you have the words and voice of a man; in this darkness I might think you _are_ a man. But in the light, I know you to be a boy. And no boy should take on such a dangerous challenge. I would not want to see it.”

            “But if I don’t, how else will we escape?”

            “Perhaps someone else will make the climb.”

            “But who’s to say that if someone did he would throw down the ropes for the rest of us?”

            “You have no faith in your fellow prisoners?”

            “Well…no, not all of them, but maybe…a few.” He sat taller, the frame of his charpoy creaking. “I’ve been working out, and eventually I’ll be able to use Hans’s weights. I’ve been sick lately—that’s why I look so weedy right now—but I’m getting better.”

            “Did you talk of these plans with your mother?”

            “Of course.”

            “And what did she say to her son attempting such a perilous climb?”

            He deflated slightly. “It scared her when I would talk about it, but I’m sure she would have wanted it. She didn’t want me to spend my life here; she didn’t want to die here.” He trailed off into sadness.

            “That is who you were dreaming about, wasn’t it?” Melisande gently asked. “You called out for her.”

            Embarrassed, Bane said nothing, suddenly chilled. He produced a noncommittal grunt and slipped back beneath his blankets.

            “You mustn’t be ashamed,” Melisande insisted. “You mustn’t think that missing her makes you weak.”

            He defiantly countered, “I was dreaming about the man I killed.”

            Though his cold words drew the desired result—Melisande fell silent in either real or imagined discomfort—he immediately regretted the admission. Leading up to this moment he had sensed her trusting him, their private conversation in the safety of darkness sewing companionship between them, a companionship that he admitted he missed since the Vulture’s death.

            “Why did you kill him?” she asked.

            “It doesn’t matter why,” he gruffly said. “All that matters is he’s gone.” He pulled the blankets up to his chin, faced away from her. “I’m going back to sleep now. You should, too.”

            Though she said nothing, he sensed that he had hurt her feelings. Well, he told himself, there was no help for it; he did not want to think anymore of the Vulture, of his death, of his absence as a companion or the absence of the chess set or Osito. All he wanted right now was to forget everything, including the young woman in the next cell. But he knew, even as he eventually drifted off, that she would be the first thought on his mind when he awoke.


	26. Chapter 26

            “Well, if it isn’t ball buster Bane,” Hans’s voice filled the shaft, drawing the attention of all those at the pool.

            Bane looked up from washing to see the big German grinning down at him. Not in the mood to be amused, he said nothing in reply and went back to scrubbing his ears. His reticence, however, did not dent Hans’s mood as the German sat to roll up his frayed pant legs before putting his feet into the water.

            “That’s what they’re calling you, you know—ball buster—after what you did to Ramzi yesterday.”

            Bane grunted, feigning apathy.

            “Watch yourself around him, though. Bastard will want his revenge.” Hans fell silent for a time before asking, “So what of our new prisoner? Gola says you two were whispering all night.” The grin returned, but this time Hans kept the expression to himself.

            “Gola’s a liar.”

            “ _Ja_ , and a happy liar considering his new neighbor.”

            Bane twisted the water from his wash rag.

            “Easy there, boy. No need to strangle it.”

            “I hate how he talks to her, how they all look at her. Like they did with my mother.”

            “Bane.” Sobering, Hans took a hold of the rag to gain his attention. “Listen to me, boy. She’s not your mother, so don’t act as if she belongs to you. You do that and you’ll have more than just Ramzi gunning for you. They’ll resent you. Sure, they may not be able to physically reach the girl, but in their twisted minds she belongs to each and every one of them. Don’t be jumping into a cock fight when you are still a chick.”

            Bane growled, “It wasn’t a chick that killed the Vulture.”

            “True enough, but the Vulture wasn’t expecting a fight. The rest of them—now that you’ve spilled blood—they will be prepared; they know you are armed and they won’t underestimate you.”

            “Ramzi’s nothing but a coward.”

            “ _Ja_ , but a sly coward. He will wait for the right time, perhaps while you are still recovering from the typhus, so I caution you not to roam too far from your cell unless you are with the doctor. Don’t give Ramzi that chance.”

            “I won’t,” Bane grumbled. He shook out the rag and stood to leave.

            “Stop by my cell later,” Hans invited. “I bought a backgammon set yesterday with some of my winnings. Have a game or two? It may not be chess, but at least now I’ll have a chance to beat you.”

            This time when Hans grinned, Bane could not suppress a smile of his own. He nodded and headed back to his cell.

            Because it was still very early many prisoners remained asleep. Bane glanced into each cell that he passed, thinking of what Hans had said about the men and Melisande. His fingers twitched and went to the sheathed knife concealed beneath his tunic. He knew Hans was right about all of them, about Ramzi. He needed to be vigilant, if not for his own sake then for Melisande’s sake, for who else would see her safely free of this place and those who dwelled here?

            Thinking of last night’s conversation, he frowned. Mixed emotions had driven him from his cell before Melisande awoke this morning. While a bit ashamed of his abrupt treatment of her, he did not regret putting a quick halt to any discussion into the details of the Vulture’s death. Not only did he not want to dwell upon it, but he did not want the shame of her knowing what the man had been intent upon doing to him. True, he could not stop others from informing her, but he was counting on the subject fast growing stale among the inmates, so perhaps the tale would die long before Melisande could hear of it.

            When he drew closer to her cell, he saw that she was not in bed but instead on her knees in front of her toilet. The sounds of her vomiting made Bane’s stomach clench with memories of the typhus. Gola, resting on one elbow on his charpoy, caught his eye and winked and nodded toward the blanket separating him from Melisande. Bane hurried into his cell.

            “Are you all right?” he asked. “Do you want me to fetch the doctor?”

            She raised a staying hand, waited to see if another wave of nausea would strike.

            Bane crouched next to the bars that separated them and reached through with his wash rag. “Here. Take this. Put it on the back of your neck; it’s still damp. It will help.”

            Her gaze flashed sidelong at him, but she waited a moment longer before trusting herself to reach for the cloth. She pushed aside her thick braid and pressed the rag against her skin, bowing her head and sitting, eyes closed.

            “I’ll get the doctor.”

            “No…please. Don’t bother him with this. I’m sure I’ll be fine after I get a bit more rest.”

            Doubtful, Bane frowned. “Do you need water? I can give you some of mine.”

            A weak smile wavered on her lips. “No. My pitcher still has plenty. But thank you.”

            He nodded, wishing there was something more he could do. “Try to drink if you can.”

            She waved a feeble hand at him and slowly returned to her charpoy.

            “She’ll be fine, boy,” Gola called with no true sympathy. “Don’t you worry. She’s just not used to this place. Has her insides all tore up, no doubt.”

            Bane was unconvinced. As he cooked his breakfast atop his brazier—a virtual feast with the resupply having provided eggs and goat meat, both of which he rationed—he kept an eye on Melisande, who lay on her back, the cloth draped across her forehead. Once the scent of his sizzling food permeated the air she scrambled back to the toilet to vomit. He removed the food before it was cooked as thoroughly as he preferred and gobbled it down, his appetite having ravenously returned for the first time since the typhus.

            As Melisande sank back upon her charpoy, he asked again, “Are you sure you don’t want the doctor? I’m going on rounds with him in a few minutes; we could stop to see you first.” He wondered if Assad would allow him inside her cell.

            “No,” she said hoarsely. “Thank you. I’m sure it will pass.”

            Reluctantly Bane left her, but when he reached the doctor’s cell, he informed Assad of her condition. The doctor did not look up from packing his medical bag with some of the new medicine that had arrived yesterday.

            “Since she has asked not to be seen for now I will honor her wishes.” Assad turned and tapped a finger to his temple, wearing a wry smile. “When a woman speaks, a man must listen; otherwise he will pay the price.”

            Thinking of his mother’s tacit rules and her displeasure if he disobeyed, Bane nodded.

            “Now here.” The doctor rattled a pill bottle. “These are for you. The rest of your antibiotics. Make sure you use them up; don’t skimp and squirrel some away for when we have a shortage.” He wagged a brown finger. “And don’t give them away to that beautiful neighbor of yours.”

            “Abrams?” Bane grinned. “He’s not so beautiful.”

            Assad laughed. “Ah, yes, I see your sense of humor is returning. A good sign, a good sign.” He closed his bag. “Now let’s be on our way.”


	27. Chapter 27

            When Bane returned from rounds with the doctor, he borrowed a number of books and took them back to his cell. Happily he found Melisande much restored, color once again upon her cheeks, her stomach settled enough for her to eat a small bite. He presented the books to her.

            “I don’t know what you like to read,” Bane said, “but in here it doesn’t really matter. Even if you read every single book in the whole prison, you’ll still have time for more.” He smiled but only briefly because now—no longer concealed by night—he was inexplicably self-conscious of his crooked teeth, especially the right incisor—his “snaggle tooth,” as Greyson derisively referred to it.

            “Thank you, Bane,” she smiled. “That’s very kind of you.”

            His cheeks flushed at her compliment and sent warmth creeping up his ears. He quickly pulled his _shemagh_ over them.

            Reluctantly he said, “The doctor will help you hang up the other blanket today…if you’d like.”

            Melisande studied him with discomfiting intensity and almost tenderness. “No,” she answered at last. “Not today.”

            Bane tried to hide his pleased expression by turning away from the bars. “Well, I’m going to Hans’s cell to play some backgammon. Do you need anything before I go?”

            “No, thank you.”

            “If she needs anything,” Gola called from beyond the blanket, sarcasm in his tone, “I’ll take care of it, boy.”

            Irritated, Bane nearly barked something back at the Pakistani, but when he saw slight amusement on Melisande’s face he let the remark go.

            The next morning Bane was awoken by the disturbing noise of Melisande once again being sick. This time he did not ask; he simply went to find the doctor and returned with him. As Assad entered Melisande’s cell, Bane paused at the door to see if he would be invited in, but Assad closed the door between them. Bane retreated to his own cell and sat on his charpoy with his back toward them to provide some semblance of privacy. He picked up a relatively recent issue of _Soldier of Fortune_ magazine that had come to the pit with the resupply and pretended to be reading it, all the while his ears tuned to the adjacent cell.

            Assad addressed Melisande in quiet Arabic, and Bane did his best to translate the conversation.

            “When did these symptoms first manifest?”

            “Just yesterday. But I felt better in the afternoon. I thought maybe it was just something I ate.”

            “And today’s symptoms are the same as yesterday’s?”

            “Yes.”

            The rest of the conversation was too softly spoken and quick for Bane to grasp. But Assad did not stay long, and after he was gone Bane set aside the magazine. When he turned to Melisande, her expression momentarily choked off his question. She lay on her charpoy staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide and frightened, fingers kneading the edge of her blanket, her breathing shallow and rapid.

            “What did he say?” Bane asked. “Did he give you something to take?”

            She shook her head, did not answer for a long moment. Then she looked at him, the skin over her high cheekbones tight with tension, color drained.

            “He thinks I might be pregnant.”

            Bane stared, agape. Moisture filled the corners of her eyes, and she looked upward again, blinking away the tears.

            “Henri will never know he has a child,” she said in a forlorn whisper.

            Stunned into silence, Bane struggled to recover and speak with as much authority as he could fabricate: “Of course he will. I told you—we’ll escape.”

            “Bane.” She squeezed her eyes shut as if to banish such hope. “You can’t endanger your life for me; you don’t even know me.”

            “I know that you shouldn’t be here, and I know what it’s like to grow up here; that shouldn’t happen to anyone else. So if you don’t want me to help you, I’m sure you would want me to help your child.”

            “Maybe the doctor is wrong. Maybe I’m not pregnant.”

            Bane shrugged to humor her. “Maybe.” He hesitated. “What if you sent word to your father and told him you’re pregnant? Perhaps he would take you out of here.”

            She did not answer immediately, and he wondered if she were actually considering the option. “No,” she said at last, “I would be too afraid to let him know. I couldn’t take the chance that he would see to the baby’s end…if there is a baby.”

            Bane searched for something to say that might sooth her. “Well, if you do have a baby, wouldn’t it be a bit like having a piece of your husband here with you?”

            The idea brightened her eyes and momentarily washed the anxiety from her countenance. She managed a tight smile. “Thank you, Bane.”

            “For what?”

            “For being so kind to me.”

            He shrugged and diverted his gaze. When he looked up, she had one arm outstretched toward the bars, the smile now warm. Uncertain, he hesitated. When her fingers curled in invitation, he crouched close to the bars and reached through to take her hand. She gave him a gentle squeeze as his mother used to do.

            “You should move your charpoy closer to the bars,” she said. “That way if you have another nightmare, I can nudge you awake.” She lowered her voice so Gola could not hear. “If you are afraid, you can reach out for my hand, like this. And if I’m afraid, I can reach out for yours, yes?”

            Struck dumb by both her soft touch and her trusting words, all Bane could do was nod.


	28. Chapter 28

            When Melisande’s illness continued with regularity, an examination by Doctor Assad proved his suspicions to be true. Though Bane was not allowed to be present for the examination as he was with all other patients, Assad spoke to him afterward, cautioning him to keep the news to himself.

            “The others will find out in due course,” Assad said. “But for now we must keep it to ourselves. This is Melisande’s first child, and sometimes the first time is the most delicate, especially during the first trimester, so the fewer things that stress her, the better.”

            Melisande seemed relieved to know the truth, an emotion mixed with both happiness and desperation. Bane found his own reaction to be equally muddled; though he did not desire another child to grow up as he had, he looked forward to the distraction such an arrival would provide as well as a new companion once older… _if_ —Bane reminded himself—they had not escaped by then.

            Bane scoured the doctor’s medical library for all he could learn about pregnancy and the birth of a baby, some details of which made him a bit queasy, but he made sure the doctor knew that he would be qualified to provide any assistance during the delivery. He badgered Assad about making sure they would have on hand any drugs that might be needed and questioned him about other births he had attended before being incarcerated.

            Late one morning when Bane returned from rounds with the doctor, he found Melisande sitting on a mat close to her door where the light was best—but not within reach of any wayward prisoner. Her fingers worked diligently on something in her grasp. Bane paused at her door, careful not to block the light from the shaft.

            “What are you doing?” he asked.

            “Crocheting.”

            “What’s that?”

            “It’s a way to make things, like blankets or clothing.” She smiled and whispered, “This will be a blanket for the baby.”

            Fascinated, Bane watched the smooth movements of her fingers with the brown yarn and the single metal tool. “Can you show me how to do that?” He sat close to the bars, eyes glued to her work.

            Patiently Melisande taught him the basics of the craft—how to hold the hook, how to wrap the yarn around the hook, how to chain and single stitch.

            She lifted her handiwork toward him. “Would you like to try?”

            His fingers twitched. “Yes, but I don’t want to ruin your blanket.” He pointed at the implement. “Do you have another one of those?”

            “No, but it would be easy enough to make one out of wood.”

            “Well, all right then. Let me whittle one, then I can practice on something of my own. Do you have much yarn?”

            “What I brought with me should be enough for a blanket and a few small items.”

            “Maybe we can get some more on the next resupply. I can ask Doctor Assad; he’s in charge of our cellblock’s requests.”

            Bane scrounged through the prison until he was able to secure a small stick, then he rushed back to Melisande’s cell. He examined the crochet hook to understand its dimensions then went to the safety of his cell to whittle the stick down. The work he had done on the Vulture’s chess pieces served him well now, and he finished the hook in short order.

            Melisande moved to sit near the bars that separated them and handed him a small skein. Then they spent the afternoon, heads down and fingers busy, talking companionably about their lives until the light from the shaft began to fade. Melisande’s world had been far different from his mother’s; Bane listened with rapt fascination as she spoke about her family and friends, about their wealth. She did not brag of luxuries but instead spoke of them as he would about any common thing, and he could only imagine the shock she had suffered when first exposed to the utter poverty of those imprisoned here. She talked about her father’s violent rise to power among the local tribesmen, a coup made possible by mercenaries like Henri Ducard. And, with a melancholy smile upon her pretty lips, she told Bane how she had fallen in love with Ducard.

            As she finished her story, Abrams came rambling along the cell row. He looked twice as he passed Bane to enter his cell. “What the hell are you at, boy?”

            With a triumphant smile, Bane displayed what had the makings of a rather lopsided baby bootie. “I’m learning how to crochet.”

            Abrams reared his head back. “Crochet? Holy shit, boy.” He smiled wryly and shook his head. “Don’t you know that’s women’s work?”

            Bane paused in confusion. “Why?”

            “Because that’s what women do—they sew and make things like that…like whatever the hell that is you’re making.”  
            “It’s a—” Bane stopped himself just in time to swallow the words, catching Melisande’s cautioning glance. “It’s a…”

            “A potholder,” Melisande rescued him. “Maybe if you don’t tease the boy so, he will make something for you to keep the cold from your bones.”

            Abrams laughed with genuine amusement.

            “Sewing isn’t just women’s work,” Bane protested. “You sew; we all do. We’re always needing to patch up our clothes.”

            “True enough,” Abrams conceded, “But _crocheting_ …” He shook his head again, chuckling, and went to light his brazier. “My grandmother used to crochet.”

            Melisande said, “And she was a happy soul, wasn’t she?” She smiled knowingly at Bane. “Knitting and crocheting are good for your mind as well as your hands. It will calm you and help pass the time.”

            “If you say so, sister,” Abrams said.

            “Don’t listen to him, Bane. Mr. Abrams, perhaps since you believe sewing to be women’s work, you might like to pay me to do your mending.”

            Abrams appeared to consider the offer but only grunted with a shrug and turned away.

            Melisande set aside her work, rubbed her eyes. “I think this is where I’ll finish today.”

            “I’m going to go to the stepwell,” Bane said, “to practice a bit more while there’s still some light.”

            Melisande’s gaze trailed out toward the shaft and upward. “I wish I could go with you. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but I already feel like a caged bird.”

            Bane frowned. “You’ll get more used to it over time. My mother was here almost fourteen years, all in this same cell.”

            “She never got out even once?”

            “No, of course not. You know why.” Bane’s attention flashed toward Gola’s cell.

            Melisande leaned close to the bars, drawing Bane with her. An almost desperate spark enlivened her pale gaze, and in a conspiratorial whisper she said, “Maybe one night you can take me out there.” She nodded toward the shaft.

            He stared at her, shocked not only by the request but by the fact that she would trust him with her safety. “I can’t do that; it’s not safe.”

            “Who would know? It’s dark out there, isn’t it? We could go on a moonless night.”

            Bane shook his head.

            Melisande frowned. “Please, Bane. I’m teaching you how to crochet; can’t you do this for me? Just one time.”

            He squirmed. “The doctor has the key to your cell, and he would never give it to me.”

            “What if I get it from him? Would you take me out there then?”

            Bane relaxed, figuring there was no way the doctor would relinquish the key. “I don’t know.”

            “Will you at least think about it?”

            Something deep inside prodded him, some lost sense of adventure, of risk, like what he used to feel as a small boy leaning out over the pool from the steps far above, tempting gravity. Thinking of the star-studded sky when he had last gone into the shaft at night he remembered wishing that he could show those constellations to Melisande. Now he looked back into her fervent gaze and considered how stifling it would be to never leave his cell, to be a true prisoner as his mother had been.

            At last he sighed and told Melisande that he would think about her request. “But I can’t promise anything,” he warned before hurrying off to the stepwell with his yarn and hook.


	29. Chapter 29

            Bane could see the hunger that lingered in Melisande’s eyes after she had eaten each of her small meals every day. The baby growing within her demanded more than her rations provided. Doctor Assad supplemented her diet as much as he could from his own stores, though Melisande protested his generosity. When Bane tried to do the same, she refused to take the little that he had to offer.

            “You are a growing boy,” she remonstrated. “You need every morsel you have.” When Bane started to argue, she used a different tactic: “How will you ever be strong enough to make the climb if you give all your food to me?”

            So Bane devised a different strategy. When she slept—something she did with great frequency—he would go to her door and slip food in through the bars, and when she awoke and asked who had done such a kindness Bane gave credit to the doctor. He, of course, had sworn Doctor Assad to secrecy, so when Melisande thanked him Assad would play along. The doctor was not particularly pleased with Bane’s plan, but he knew the boy well enough to know that arguing with him over this would be futile. And after all, Bane pointed out, the pregnancy would not last forever.

            To further add to their pantries, Bane gambled at backgammon, dice, and cards, and while he did not have the success that he had enjoyed with chess his winnings were enough to replace some of what he gave away to Melisande. He wished he were grown enough to challenge someone to a fight, for the winner of any arranged match always received a worthwhile purse.

            Now fully recovered from the typhus, he worked out every day with Hans, sharing his plan of attempting the climb sooner rather than later. No one yet knew of Melisande’s condition, and though Bane trusted Hans more than anyone else besides the doctor, he remained silent regarding the motivation behind his pressing desire to make the climb. Hans neither encouraged nor discouraged his hopes.

            “You want to do this for the girl?” the big German asked one day as he rested between weight-lifting repetitions in his cell.

            Bane, his feet hooked against the front bars of the cell, continued his crunches with a grunted, “Maybe.”

            Hans chuckled, drawing Bane’s attention. The man grinned. “She’s married, I hear.”

            Bane blushed and turned away from his friend. “Is there something wrong with wanting to help her?”

            “ _Nein_ , nothing wrong. It’s just that most everyone around here only wants to help himself. You’re an anomaly.”

            “What does that mean?” Bane growled.

            “It means you are different.” Hans chuckled. “After all, what other man crochets in the pit?”

            Bane scowled, though he knew Hans was only teasing, and he did appreciate the fact that Hans had referred to him as a man. “I like it. As I’m working, Melisande helps me with my Arabic.”

            “Maybe, if you are able to escape, she will also be able to help you make your way in the world. She certainly seems to have taken a shine to you.”

            Bane tried to hide his smile as he finished his first one hundred crunches. He had not really given much thought to Melisande rewarding him in any way should he be able to see them free of this place. But now, considering the resources she might have beyond the pit, perhaps she would be able to help him find his father.

            When he returned to his cell, he found Melisande sitting on her charpoy, eating an orange and looking particularly pleased about something. She crooked a finger to draw him near to the bars, then she put her finger to her lips before he could speak. Curious, Bane knelt on his charpoy which these days was pushed up close to the bars. Melisande offered him a section of the orange, but he shook his head. She set the fruit aside, and with her smile broadening she lifted one corner of her pillow to reveal the key to her cell.

            “How did you get that?”

            “I asked the doctor, of course.”

            “And he just gave it to you?”

            “I told him that I would feel safer if I kept the key. It could be taken forcibly from him. In here with me, no one can get to it.”

            Her logic, of course, was unassailable, yet Bane was still surprised…and worried, for he knew what the next subject of discussion would be.

            “Will there be a moon tonight?” she asked.

            He stammered and stuttered to buy time. His initial thought was to lie, but he certainly could not successfully lie for an entire lunar cycle. While Melisande was no astronomer, he was quite certain she knew enough to easily see through any such ruse.

            “It’s not safe,” he whispered. “Moon or no moon.”

            “Even if someone else were in the shaft it’ll be too dark for them to see me.”

            More logic he could not deny. Out of sheer frustrated concern he tried a new, uncomfortable approach: “How do you know I won’t give you away or that I won’t harm you myself?”

            The look she gave him was indulgent. “Because I _know_ that a boy who gives up his own food for a baby he has no vested interest in wouldn’t do such a thing to us.”

            Her choice of a plural pronoun caught him off guard, and the idea that he was actually protecting two persons filled him with a mixture of pride and fear.

            “We don’t have to stay there long,” she pleaded even closer to the bars.

            Bane could not bear the desperate longing in her eyes. Never before had he been in such a position of power. The feeling left him befuddled and silent.

            “I suppose I could go on my own,” Melisande murmured.

            Bane gripped the bars. “No, you can’t.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because you don’t have a weapon.”

            “And you do?”

            He hesitated, for he had yet to reveal his knife to Melisande out of fear that she might ask about the Vulture’s murder. “I might,” he said with a touch of haughtiness in hopes of discouraging her.

            “May I borrow it?”

            His scowl lacked ferocity. “I said I _might_.”

            “Bane.” The tolerant look was back, this time in the form of a small pout that took him completely by surprise with the way it instantly disarmed him and left him fumbling to regain his resolve and stubbornness. “I’m going to go, so you might as well come, too.” She tossed a glance over her shoulder at Gola’s empty cell. “We can talk in actual privacy.”

            Bane simmered for a long moment, mind spinning, searching for a way to keep her in her cell, but ultimately he came back to his original desire to allow her to see the stars and dream of escape. And there was no way he would let her go unescorted. Perhaps once she was out of her cell, he would be able to get the key from her and return it to Doctor Assad.

            “I suppose I don’t have much of a choice,” he said. “You aren’t familiar with the shaft, and your eyes won’t be as good in the dark as mine. Without me, you might fall and hurt yourself.”

            “That’s very true.”

            “But if we do this, it’s only for ten minutes. No more.”

            Melisande appeared to consider his restriction with deep regret but at last agreed. He could see in her eyes, though, that she would try to persuade him otherwise once out of her cell. The doctor had warned him about how women could manipulate men, and Bane was now beginning to fully understand just what Assad had meant.


	30. Chapter 30

            Deep in the night Bane lay on his charpoy, barely breathing, as acutely alert and sensitive to every nuance of the prison as ever before. He had remained awake, too anxious and excited to doze off. For the tenth time he felt beneath his tunic for his knife. A part of him hoped Melisande would sleep on, never waking until morning, but he suspected that she, too, was awake even now. Neither had added charcoal to their braziers before turning in for the night; they wanted no chance that a glimmer of light might give them away when it came time to leave their cells.

            Finally he heard what he had been waiting for—the deep snores of both Gola and Abrams. Melisande had agreed that they would not get up until both men were fast asleep; although the blackness alone would cloak their movements, there was the danger of sound betraying them. Bane was supposed to reach through the bars and touch Melisande as a signal, yet he did not, hoping she had reconsidered her impulsive adventure. But soon her hand pressed lightly against his shoulder, though she did not risk speaking his name. Reluctant, he stood, wrapping one of the blankets about his shoulders for added warmth. Bare-footed for stealth, he slipped to his door and ever so slowly inserted and turned his key. Then he waited, alert for any nearby movement before stepping outside and carefully closing the door, taking the chance of not locking it behind him for fear of making a sound.

            He sensed Melisande was outside her cell, felt her presence more than saw it, pleased that she had been quiet in her escape. When he took her hand, she trembled, and he was glad that she was afraid, for fear could very well be her salvation should someone discover her and pursue her. She, too, had agreed to remove her shoes, so now they tip-toed in silence into the shaft.

            Before stepping away from one of the short pillars that separated the cellblock from the stepwell, Bane paused and held his breath, strained to hear any hint of a prisoner being in the shaft or any telltale noise that said Gola or anyone else followed. He sniffed but smelled nothing except water and stone…and Melisande. Satisfied, he made for the nearest steps.

            As he had told her, they would descend only one flight. That would put them between two levels of cells, making their conversation less likely to be heard, especially if whispered. He squeezed her hand as a signal so she knew to start downward. To her the steps would be hidden in the night, but to him, they were gray blurs. As a mere toddler he had learned that in order to see an object in darkness he should not focus upon it but instead shift his eyes just slightly away. Even thus educated, he now moved painstakingly slow, allowing Melisande behind him to feel the edges of each step with her toes. She gasped once when her foot slipped, and as he turned back to steady her, his hand inadvertently pressed against one of her breasts. He almost apologized, but his body’s unexpected response and his innate caution stifled the impulse. Quickly he turned forward again.

            Reaching the next level, he stopped and carefully sat, his hand drawing Melisande with him. She pressed necessarily close, still trembling. He took the blanket from his shoulders and draped it around her, their scents mingling. Through their contact he felt the quickness of her heartbeat, and when she remained silent he wondered if she regretted coming. Or perhaps it was only trepidation that muted her tongue.

            He squeezed her hand again, expecting her to free him now, but she did not. Instead her other hand joined their clasp beneath the fold of the blanket.

            “Look up,” he whispered near her ear to distract her fears.

            Her _shemagh_ fell away as she leaned her head back, and a small gasp escaped her as she beheld the distant, sparkling heavens. Her grip tightened upon him, almost painful in her ardency.

            “So far away,” she murmured.

            “But not unreachable.”

            She turned to him, their faces so close that he could make out her features and feel her breath. Her nearness and the smell of her intoxicated him, making him glad he had come, no matter the risks. And then, taking him completely by surprise, she kissed his cheek.

            “Thank you,” she whispered then drew the _shemagh_ back over her head.

            Stupefied he stared down at the pool, his left foot swinging forward and back against the ledge wall.

            “Your mother raised a good boy,” she continued, taking his hand again, “a brave boy. And an angel must have put me in the cell next to yours. Maybe your mother is the angel.”

            Thinking of his mother in such a way and of the possibility of her influence pleased him, though he really did not believe in angels or anything remotely heavenly; such a concept was impossible, illogical down here.

            “Bane, may I ask you something…a favor?”

            He stammered, “Of course.”

            “And you must be honest. Don’t say what you think I want you to say. You must tell me the truth. It’s important…the most important thing I could ever ask someone. And though we haven’t known each other long, I know I can trust you, especially after tonight.”

            Her words made him wonder if their visit to the shaft had been, in truth, some sort of a test, not merely a fanciful and dangerous whim on her part.

            She hesitated. “After the baby is born…if something were to happen to me—”

            Aghast, he unwittingly pulled his hand away from hers. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

            “ _If_ something does…I need to know that someone will take care of my child.”

            He stared through the darkness, wanted to stand, to pace, to walk off her troubling scenario. The very thought of losing her as he had lost his mother nearly brought tears to his eyes. Yet he could not get up, not only because caution dictated against such an action, but because Melisande took his hand back into hers. And because he could still feel her kiss.

            “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” he repeated desperately, fighting to keep his voice low, but it seemed to fill the shaft.

            “I’ve never delivered a baby before, Bane. Things can go wrong. You know that; I’ve seen you reading the doctor’s books. And even if everything goes smoothly, there might be other things, later; I might get sick like your mother did—”

            “Please…stop.” Again he reclaimed his hand, clasped its heat around his other hand lying cold in his lap. “We should go back. We’ve been here long enough—”

            He started to stand, no longer caring if his movements made a sound or drew the attention of anyone who might have slipped into the shaft while Melisande’s petitions had distracted him. She tugged at his clothing to bring him back down to her, but instead he grasped her arm and almost dragged her up the steps with him.

            “Bane…stop…”

            “Shhh!”

            Her urgency succumbed to the need for silence as she stumbled after him.

            Once back on the level of their cellblock, Bane paused at the nearest pillar, listened, angry at himself for the increase in his breathing. Hearing nothing except that and his heartbeat driving in his ears, he glided forward, still holding onto Melisande who followed just as silently. He purposefully approached their cells from Abrams’s side, not Gola’s. While Abrams still snored on, Bane did not hear anything from Gola, and the blanket hanging from the ceiling in Melisande’s cell as well as the darkness made it impossible to see the man.

            Bane stood next to Melisande until she had unlocked her door and opened it just wide enough to slip in so the hinges did not squeal as they did when opened wider. She turned to him, about to speak, but Bane did not wait for her words. Instead he fled back to the shaft.


	31. Chapter 31

            The doctor found him the next morning, asleep in a crumpled, cold ball in a corner near the pool. Through bleary eyes Bane looked up at him, the shaft now defused with early morning light, a flock of birds crossing between the mouth of the shaft and the pink sky. A crease of concern marred Assad’s forehead.

            “Not a safe place to sleep, my boy.”

            He urged Bane to his feet with a hand under one arm as other early-risers made their way into the shaft. Bane stumbled over to the pool to splash water on his face.

            The doctor eyed him sidelong as he washed. “Did you sleep here all night?”

            “No.”

            “Something you care to share?”

            “No.”

            “Very well. Will you be attending me on rounds?”

            Bane nodded. He was not ready to see Melisande yet.

            Assad’s attention remained upon him. “Would you like to have breakfast with me?”

            Bane nodded again. He considered telling the doctor about Melisande’s foray into the shaft last night in the hopes of Assad stopping another such venture, but to do so would only incriminate himself.

            Once they were in Assad’s cell, the troubling discussion from last night refused to release Bane. Assad had remained silent since coming from the shaft, and Bane knew the man was allowing him room to speak his mind.

            “Doctor, out of the different times you delivered babies, did you ever have any trouble? I mean, the mothers…did they all live? And the babies?”

            “Yes. I am fortunate to be able to say they all did.” He winked. “Including you and your mother, if I may remind you.” Assad stood to check their breakfast on the brazier—oatmeal made with goat’s milk. “You must not worry about Melisande. She is young and healthy. And many women deliver their babies without a doctor present. But Melisande will have both of us, won’t she?” He smiled, the expression and his words easing some of Bane’s concerns.

            “What would happen to her baby if she did die?”

            “Well, I suppose her parents would be notified. Or perhaps the baby’s father.”

            “She’s afraid her own father would have the baby killed, so we couldn’t tell her parents; it would be too risky.”

            “Then the baby’s father, if he can be located, though I’m not sure how that could happen since his whereabouts are unknown.”

            Bane frowned.

            “But what’s all this talk for? Did Melisande tell you something about her health that she’s kept from me?”

            “No. No, not at all. I—I was just thinking…you know…just in case.”

            The doctor grunted. “I suppose there’s some wisdom in that. But it’s not something I want to bring up to Melisande at this point. No sense in her thinking such things right now.”

            Bane almost told him that she already had, but he let the subject drop and tried to think no more of it as he ate.

            After rounds with the doctor, Bane spent most of the afternoon with Hans—working out, playing backgammon, and being schooled in German. By then his lack of rest the previous night caught up to him, and he fell asleep with his face in a book on Hans’s table. He awoke to the smell of frying potatoes and onions.

            “You can stay if you like,” Hans offered. “But if I cook for you today, you must cook for me tomorrow.”

            Bane had a feeling that Hans suspected Melisande as the reason behind his extended time spent with him today. Not wanting to be so transparent or to be teased again, Bane thanked him for his offer and instead made his way back to his cell.

            Melisande was asleep, so Bane entered his cell with no more noise than that made by his key in the lock. Neither Abrams nor Gola were in their cells.

            Bane went to light his brazier but faltered with one hand poised above the bucket that held his charcoal. He glanced at Melisande then padded over to sit on the edge of his charpoy. Sleep had smoothed all care from her face and made her appear even younger, a phenomenon that fascinated him. He remained near the bars for some time, watching the rise and fall of her breasts, studying the curve of her lips. He had never noticed such things with his mother, and his observations puzzled him now. Had his interest been cultivated through the observed behavior of other prisoners or was his curiosity simply a natural progression that he could never rationalize nor escape even if he tried?

            He pushed aside these unsettling musings and went to light his brazier. As he did so, memories of last night returned. Perhaps it had not been talk of Melisande’s possible death that had unnerved him so badly but instead the idea that he might have to nurture a child, Melisande’s child, and—even worse—that he might fail at such a thing. While he knew he should be flattered by her faith in him, he was in truth terrified. After all, he was still a boy himself, whether Hans or anyone else thought otherwise. What did he know about caring for someone younger than he? The responsibility would be too great.

            Glancing at Melisande again, he frowned. He could not take the chance that he would have to raise her child. And so there was only one solution—he needed to make the climb. Soon.

            As the charcoal began to glow, he sat cross-legged on his charpoy and picked up a book of mathematics that he had been studying yesterday. But his attention again drifted to Melisande. Shame for his cowardly behavior last night prompted him to search for a way to make it up to her. His hasty retreat had robbed her of her freedom in the shaft. Perhaps he could take her again, just for a few minutes, one last time. He had been too distracted to attempt to acquire her key last night; perhaps he could persuade her to relinquish it if he escorted her tonight. His fingers twitched and drifted to his cheek. Maybe she would kiss him again. Such a soft, stirring sensation, similar yet so different from his mother’s caress. When he remembered the firmness of Melisande’s breast beneath his hand, his body’s response mirrored that of last night. Sheepishness warmed his face, and he drew his blanket around him, realizing for the first time that this was the blanket he had draped over Melisande’s shoulders last night. Surreptitiously he pulled one corner of it up to his nose.

            Melisande gave a small moan as she drifted awake, her nostrils twitching, a line briefly creasing her forehead. Her arms emerged from beneath her blanket—a blanket she had brought with her into the pit, designed with squares, diamonds, and floral patterns of muted gold and maroon, dark greens and blues, with fringe along the edges. Her husband had given it to her as a gift from his many travels. She stretched her arms and fingers above her head, sighed, and slowly opened her eyes. Bane scrambled off his charpoy and went to his small pantry to rummage for something to eat.

            He felt her eyes upon him as he brought a small skillet to his brazier, daubed with bacon grease, and set it to warm. As the solidified grease returned to its original state and started to sizzle and pop, he crumbled up a biscuit from yesterday and sprinkled it into the skillet along with some shreds of salted beef…or perhaps it was horse or camel. Still Melisande remained on her charpoy, her silent scrutiny making him uncomfortable. Why did she not start her own meal? Was she feeling sickly again?

            “Bane.”

            He pretended not to hear her over the frying, intent upon stirring the contents of the skillet.

            “Bane,” she repeated, this time a bit louder.

            At last he glanced at her then back to the food.

            “Are you angry with me?” she asked.

            “No.”

            She sat up, wrapping her blanket loosely about her shoulders, facing him still. “I want to apologize for last night, for what I asked of you. It was wrong of me. You’re just a boy; how could I think it fair to put you in such a position?”

            He was unsure if she was referring to the foray into the shaft or her request that he care for her child. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s all right. I’m not mad.”

            “Then why won’t you look at me?”

            He frowned. “I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

            “Whatever for?”

            “For being a coward.”

            “Bane…you are far from a coward. Even with just the little I know of you, you are one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. That’s why I asked you to care for…” She glanced along the cellblock.

            “And I should have said yes, but…I didn’t…because if I say yes then that’s admitting there’s a chance that I may have to, and if I have to it will be because you aren’t here.” He realized he had stopped stirring his food, which caused it to burn. Hastily he spooned the contents into a bowl, though he had lost all appetite and stood staring down at it.

            “Bane. Come here.”

            He shuffled over to sit on his charpoy. He held the food up to the bars for her, but she shook her head.

            “I’m sorry,” she continued. “I shouldn’t have said what I did; I should have thought about your mother, about your loss. It was cruel of me.”

            “You’re not cruel,” he mumbled, toying with his spoon. “You’re just scared.”

            “Yes,” she said near a whisper, her eyes lowering, her long lashes like soft veils.

            He swallowed hard and struggled to regain his voice, feeling culpable for her melancholy state. Near a whisper, he said, “If you’d like, I’ll take you into the shaft again tonight…since I didn’t let you stay very long last night.”

            “I couldn’t ask that of you again.”

            “You aren’t; I’m offering.” He manufactured a smile.

            “Well…just for a few minutes perhaps. It did feel wonderful to be out of this cell.” She returned his smile, making him wonder if she accepted his offer as much for his sake as for her own. When she said, “Thank you,” he thought he detected a tear in her eye.

            He nodded, suddenly self-conscious again. “You should get something to eat. Wouldn’t want your stomach to growl tonight and give us away.”

            His attempt at humor broadened her smile, a smile which in turn lifted the heaviness from his heart.


	32. Chapter 32

            The black sky was even clearer than it had been the night before. To Bane’s admiring eyes the number of stars populating the distant disk of the cosmos was so great that they seemed to wash the darkness away from the cavernous shaft and make it seem not so deep, not so sinister in its ability to hold them here forever. Melisande sat next to him in the same spot as last night, listening attentively as he named off the various constellations he had learned, though most he had never seen except in the yellowed pages of books.

            Then they fell silent for a time with the sound of her breathing just heard over the distant, trickling flow of water into the pool far below. The warmth of her body seeped into his as his mother’s used to do when they would sit close in front of their brazier or together on their charpoy, whispering into the night. Since the first time Melisande had reached through their cell bars to take his hand, he realized how much he had missed physical contact. Last night, with no bars separating them, the sensation of her skin against his had meant much more than creature comfort; he had felt human again, the way he had felt when his mother had been alive. Since her death and especially after the Vulture’s murder he had been isolated in a way he had not fully comprehended before Melisande’s touch. Now for the first time he truly understood what the other prisoners experienced every day, year after year, and this terrible knowledge made him see them in a whole new light, an empathetic one. Perhaps he should not have judged the Vulture so harshly. Perhaps his desires had simply been driven by the madness of isolation, the way a thirsty or starving man craved water and food, knowing to be deprived of them meant a long, horrible death.

            Unwittingly Bane’s train of thought urged him to snug himself tighter against Melisande, causing her to ask, “Are you cold?”

            “A bit.”

            “Here.” She had carried her husband’s blanket with her tonight, and now shared it with him, drawing him close so that it stretched across their shoulders, her right arm encircling him.

            Bane smiled to himself and chanced putting his left hand against her leg, then pretended to correct his miscalculation and returned his hand to his lap. She blew a gentle breath, a sound of amusement, he thought, then her hand drifted over to find his and gave him a reassuring squeeze. The conflict and confusion from last night melted away, a dismissal for which Bane was eternally grateful, for he had feared his behavior of the previous night may have permanently damaged their relationship.

            “Day after tomorrow,” he whispered, looking up to the stars.

            “Day after tomorrow what?”

            “I’m going to be up there.”

            She stirred. “What?”

            “I’m going to make the climb.”

            “Bane…no.”

            “No? Don’t you want to escape?”

            “Of course, but—”

            “I decided today; there’s no time to waste. It will be easier for you to get up the shaft now, before your belly gets big.” Or before any illness or mishap might befall her, but he surely was not going to mention those concerns.

            She shifted to face him, though in the darkness of the shaft such a change would not allow her to see him any better. The grip on his hand tightened. “You can’t do this for me, Bane. Please. I don’t want you to. Someone else will climb eventually, someone stronger.”

            “Maybe it isn’t strength that makes the climber succeed. Maybe that’s why no one has made it—they’ve all been men. Maybe someone smaller like me is better suited.”

            “No.” Desperation raised her voice, and he quickly shushed her. “Bane, please. I couldn’t live with myself if you died trying to help us. I’ll be all right down here. I’ll stay in my cell after tonight.”

            “But I’ll make it; you’ll see.”

            “Bane—”

            He detected a weak sound from above, like the scuff of a foot, and instantly his hand shot up to cover her mouth. When her lips fought to move, he pressed harder and breathed a tiny but urgent, “Shh!” against her ear. She stiffened with sudden understanding.

            The air in the shaft changed ever so slightly, a faint brush of displacement. Bane listened only a moment more, and within that moment he knew without a doubt that they were no longer alone. He shot to his feet, pulling Melisande with him. He urged her ahead of him, to the closest steps, putting himself between her and the nearly silent footfalls descending from the left of where they had been sitting. Although she would not have him to guide her upward, he was confident that fear and instinct would help her find her way.

            Halfway up the flight she stumbled, falling to her hands and knees, gasping in pain. Bane nearly tripped over top of her. Frantically his hands half lifted, half shoved her onward. There was no hope of melting away now, just a desperate, headlong flight.

            Melisande faltered again when her _abaya_ tangled about her legs. Bane fumbled to free her. He no longer heard the footsteps behind them; the intruder must have perceived their upward dash and doubled back to reach the next level before them, knowing Melisande would arrive there before her protector. With that sudden realization, Bane made a wild grab for her, but just then she freed herself and pushed off for the top steps, leaving Bane with nothing to grasp but night air. He opened his mouth to warn her, but it was too late.

            The black form fell upon her with a growl of triumph. The man’s weight crushed Melisande’s outcry and stole her breath. Bane scrambled upward, fumbling for the knife at his waist, cursing himself for not already having it in his hand. Melisande struggled but was virtually helpless, pinned on her stomach as the inmate tore at her clothing. Before Bane could lunge at him, the man kicked out sideways, catching Bane in the gut, knocking him backwards toward the open shaft. Bane struck the edge of the ledge and caught himself just as he flipped over.

            Kicking his feet madly against the wall and scrabbling with his hands and elbows, Bane managed to regain the ledge. This time the man was too busy with Melisande to stop him. Bane came at him with kicks and blows, afraid to use the knife until the inmate was off Melisande. His onslaught knocked the prisoner off balance and forced him to focus on defense instead of his victim. Melisande was able to free one arm and used it to batter whatever was in reach, even Bane in her blind panic.

            “Run!” cried Bane.


	33. Chapter 33

            When Melisande fought clear of her assailant, the prisoner made a final lunge for her, caught the hem of her _abaya_. She kicked out, striking him in the face, but still he clung to her. Bane wielded his knife, sliced at the man’s legs. With an outcry and a curse, the attacker freed Melisande in order to defend himself. Melisande bolted upward, her form a mere blur in the corner of Bane’s vision. Bane tried to bolt after her, but the man grabbed his ankle and brought him down.

            “You bastard—!” Pain in the man’s words; Bane knew he had hit his mark.

            Kicking his way free, Bane scrambled up, heard the man try to follow, but his wounds prevented pursuit. Wild-eyed, Bane raced after Melisande, all the while fearing that others would try to intercept them. As he came around the first pillar, he ran into her and nearly sent them both sprawling.

            Breathless, she clutched at him, whispering frantically, “Which way? Which way? I can’t see.”

            There were voices now in response to the shouts in the shaft, calling out from the nearest cellblock, some angry, some curious. Down the nearest row of cells a door squealed open. Bane snatched Melisande by the hand and sprinted for her cell. From the stepwell, the crippled assailant’s curses continued to echo; he recognized Gola’s voice.

            “Do you have your key?” Bane asked as they neared Melisande’s cell.

            “Y—yes. It’s—it’s here.”

            They reached her door just as the key slipped from her grasp.

            “Oh, no!” she gasped and dropped down to feel for it.

            “Bane, what the hell’s going on?” Abrams’s voice. “Melisande?”

            Bane sensed the inmates coming like a black wave. “There’s no time,” he hissed to her.

            “I can’t find it!”

            He pulled her into his cell. His key turned in the lock just as a dark knot of prisoners drew near. Bane urged Melisande to the farthest corner of his cell, his hand over her mouth, and they crouched without moving, barely breathing, praying the prisoners did not step on her key. Gola’s cries from the shaft distracted some of them, and they went to investigate. A couple of others milled about in front of Melisande’s cell, peering into the darkness. Someone rattled her door.

            “Is she in there?” one growled.

            “I don’t think so,” another said.

            “Get the fuck out of here,” Abrams snarled. “Some of us are trying to sleep, no thanks to that whining dog in the shaft. Go fetch the doctor to him. Must have fallen down the steps and broke his neck or something, for fuck’s sake.”

            One of the men said to his cohorts, “Maybe she’s in the shaft.” And with that they were gone in a rush.

            “Stay here,” Bane whispered to her and hurried back out to search for the key on hands and knees.

            “Bane,” Abrams called. “What the hell’s going on?”

            The voices from the shaft drew others from their cells, and so—unable to locate the key—Bane retreated to his cell. Like a spreading wildfire, the rumors and speculation about Melisande being free sent men running in all possible directions to find her.

            “Bane,” Abrams tried again but received no answer and at last gave up.

            Melisande whispered, “It won’t be good for you if they find us together.”

            “Once things calm down, I’ll use a candle to find your key. You’ll be stuck here if not. They’d all be waiting for you to leave my cell for yours.”

            “I’m sorry for all this. I never should have gone out.”

            “It was my choice, too.”

            They fell silent when the doctor’s voice arose from the stepwell, drawing closer. The light of a lantern wavered and soon appeared, bobbing along the cell row. Behind the doctor came two prisoners carrying Gola.

            As he passed Bane’s cell, Gola sneered, “You little bastard; I know you’re in there. I’ll get you for this.”

            Bane said nothing as he took one of the blankets off his charpoy and gave it to Melisande for a cloak. The blanket hanging in her cell blocked his view as Gola was tended by the doctor. All the while the Pakistani threw bilingual oaths his way.

            “There’s nothing I can do tonight but cleanse the wound,” Assad said to his patient following his examination. “We will take you into the shaft tomorrow where I will have more light. I will be able to tell you more then. For now I will give you something for the pain and something to help you rest.”

            “Knock him out good, Doc,” Abrams called. “I want to get some sleep, God damn it.”

            When the doctor emerged from Gola’s cell, Bane hurried to his door. Assad stopped in front of him with a stormy look.

            In a whisper, Assad asked, “Where’s Melisande?” but just then the light from his raised lantern reached to the rear of Bane’s cell, and his eyes widened. Quickly he lowered the lantern and drew it back to return Melisande to the shadows. “By all that’s holy, boy, what have you done this time?”

            “She dropped her key outside her door. Can you find it with your lantern?”

            Assad almost continued his harangue but suppressed it in order to look for the key. All the while Gola lay moaning and cursing until the drugs slowly began to settle him. At last the doctor’s sweeping lantern light flashed against metal on the floor of Melisande’s cell.

            “There!” Bane whispered. “Inside. See it? Can you get it?”

            The key lay beyond Assad’s reach, no matter how he extended his arm. Bane hurried to retrieve the metal stoker for his brazier. He pressed himself against the side bars of his cell and stretched the thin metal rod toward the key. With a sweeping motion he was able to knock it within the doctor’s grasp. Assad lowered the wick in his oil lantern, nearly dousing the flame altogether, then he brought the key to Bane. He did not, however, surrender it immediately but instead held it like a rebuke between them.

            “Wait until you are quite certain they have all returned to their cells, then move her quickly. Tomorrow we will talk.” His piercing gaze reached toward Melisande’s hidden form. “All _three_ of us. And you will return that key to me…permanently.”

            Too unsure of his voice, Bane simply nodded and waited until Assad relinquished the key. With one final black look, the doctor retreated, leaving Bane and Melisande to the darkness once again.

            Bane folded another blanket for them to sit upon. She still trembled, and her discreet sniffs betrayed tears. He put his arm around her.

            “Are you hurt at all?” he asked.

            “Just some bumps and scrapes. Did he hurt you?”

            “No.”

            “What did you do to him? He couldn’t walk.”

            “Hard to say exactly in the dark, but I was going for his hamstrings.”

            “With what?”

            “My knife.”

            “Ah…the weapon you _might_ have.”

            He found it strange to be smiling at such a time, but her remark and obvious admiration pleased him. “I used to keep it hidden in a stuffed bear. My mother put it there. No one knew. She made sure I always carried it—Osito was his name—when I left our cell.”

            “Do you still have it?”

            “No.” He frowned and wished he could have shown Osito to her.

            “What happened to it?”

            He hesitated. “Someone took it; used it in his brazier, no doubt.”

            “How cruel.”

            “I guess.”

            “Your poor mother… How she must have worried…” Melisande’s voice trailed off for a moment. She settled against the back wall. “How clever she was to think of that with your bear. I will have to be as clever for my child’s sake…find ways to protect him…or her. Oh, dear…” Her breath caught. “What if I have a girl?”

            The last of the prisoners who had been searching the shaft for Melisande returned. Bane heard their voices before their footsteps. He touched Melisande’s arm for silence, and they both froze. Fortunately none of the men who passed by had lanterns or candles. One said something in Arabic as they passed Bane’s cell, drawing a chuckle from a companion. Another stopped at Melisande’s cell and tried the door.

            “You in there, bitch?” Bane felt the man’s stare attempt to penetrate the blackness of her cell. “Why don’t you come out now, huh?”

            Her door rattled one last time, followed by a muttered oath. The men moved on to Gola’s cell.

            “Stupid son of a bitch. You had your chance. A chance for all of us, and you fucked it up.”

            Gola murmured something unintelligible in his drugged state, drawing further scoffs from the prisoners before they trailed away.

            As Bane waited for time to pass, cold crept up from the stone floor to stiffen his joints, but still he remained next to Melisande. Fatigue began to claim her, and her head sagged against his shoulder, her hair soft against his cheek. Eventually quiet returned to the pit—though never true peace—and the snores of both Abrams and Gola told Bane it was time. He gently shook Melisande awake. When he started to stand, her hands gripped his arm to anchor him.

            “I’m afraid,” she whispered. “What if someone is still out there, waiting, letting us think they’ve all gone?”

            “I’ll go first. I’ll make sure no one is around then unlock your door. Then you can go in and lock it behind you. I’ll stay right by the door until you do.”

            Reluctantly she freed him. As silently as possible, he slipped out of his cell and stood listening for several minutes. He drifted first in one direction along the cellblock, then back the other way, finding no one. For a long moment he stood at the edge of the shaft, senses keen, the distant black sky no longer holding promise but instead mocking him for his folly. No sounds there either, just that mundane trickle of water far below.

            When he returned to his cell, Melisande approached the bars. He opened his door, and she followed nearly on top of him. By the time he put the key into her lock, his hands were shaking, and he made what he feared was a horrible racket but which was, in truth, barely a rattle. Melisande brushed past him, taking her warmth with her. He locked the door and pressed the key through the bars into her trembling hand, both breathing sighs of relief.

            “Thank you,” she said, no longer whispering.

            He returned to his cell, to his charpoy, hearing the slight protest of her bed as she too retired just on the other side of the bars.

            “Do you have your blanket?” he asked, suddenly remembering. “The one you carried with you.”

            “No,” she said in quiet despair. “Henri’s blanket. I must have dropped it.”

            “Here…take one of mine. I’ll go look for it.”

            “No…it’s not safe. Wait until light.”

            “That may be too late.” He threaded one of his blankets through the bars amidst her protests then returned to the shaft. Yet no matter how many times he retraced their flight path, he could not find the blanket.


	34. Chapter 34

            The next morning Doctor Assad, with the help of two inmates, took Gola to the shaft where he did his best to repair the damage to the Pakistani’s leg. Bane was relieved that Assad had not requested his assistance, for he wanted no part in helping ease Gola’s suffering. He was equally relieved to be able to sleep in, for the past two nights had left him worn. Melisande—after a brief bout of morning sickness—also slept beyond her normal time.

            When Bane awoke, Gola was back in his cell, drugged from the procedure, and the doctor stood at Bane’s door, wearing an unpleasant expression. The corners of Assad’s mouth naturally turned downward, and this trait seemed even more pronounced today as he waited for Bane to allow him in.

            Once Assad settled on Bane’s charpoy, facing him, he spoke Melisande’s name to awaken her. She regained her senses slowly, stiffly.

            “You aren’t injured, are you?” the doctor asked her. “I imagine you would have said something last night if you were.”

            “Just some bruises,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

            Assad considered them both with deep displeasure. “Why must the young always be foolish?”

            “What happened last night was my fault,” Melisande said. “Don’t blame Bane. I asked him to take me into the shaft.”

            “And Bane could not say no?”

            “He knew I would go even without him,” she said before Bane could sputter a response. “He went to protect me. But it won’t happen again.” She withdrew the key from beneath her pillow and handed it through the bars to Assad.

            “What on earth were you two thinking? And you, Melisande, with a baby on the way…”

            “She’s not used to it like us,” Bane interceded. “Being a prisoner, I mean, being locked up. She just wanted to see the stars.”

            “A damned fool thing to want considering it could have cost you both your lives…and the life of your child, Melisande.” He sighed when she bowed her head in shame. “Now I have sewn up Gola. He will walk again, but when he does it will be with a limp. A damn good thing for you, Bane, because you will need to keep out of his reach. You have made yourself another enemy.”

            “It doesn’t matter,” Bane insisted. “I’m going to escape; I’m going to make the climb day after tomorrow.”

            Assad reared back to stare at him in astonishment.

            “Doctor,” Melisande said, “you must talk him out of this. He won’t listen to me.”

            “No one is going to talk me out of it,” Bane said. “And Doctor Assad is going to help you. Once I reach the top and throw the ropes down, the good doctor will help you climb, after all the others are out.”

            At last Assad recovered. “I’m beginning to think the typhus fever truly addled your brain, boy. Pure nonsense, this talk. You seem determined to get yourself killed, if not by someone sticking a knife into you then by making some hopeless climb.”

            “It’s not hopeless,” Bane snapped in order to counter the echo of the Vulture’s ridicule. “And you can’t stop me.”

            Barely missing a beat, Assad threatened, “Hans will not hold the rope for you. No one will; I will see to it.”

            “Then I’ll do it without the rope.”

            Assad’s dark complexion grew even darker, and he got to his feet. “Perhaps it is _your_ key that I should take.”

            Bane quickly closed his fist around the key hanging from his neck, glaring a challenge at the doctor.

            “You think you are suddenly a man, do you?” Assad’s glance touched upon Melisande before returning to Bane. “This one has made you think it. Well, if you are foolish enough to take on the shaft you will learn just how wrong you are. And if you survive the fall you will expect me to set your broken bones, I imagine.” He turned for the door which Bane had left unlocked. There he paused long enough to look back and say, “Well, I will have no part in your madness.”

#

            Bane did not allow the doctor’s threats to erode his resolve. He had other things to concentrate on, and one of those was locating Melisande’s missing blanket. He refrained from telling her of his search, for he knew she would try to dissuade him out of fear that he would be injured by whoever had claimed the blanket from the shaft. But he noticed that many of the prisoners who saw him this day gave him a wide berth. Only a few taunted him about his audacious excursion the night before, and those men—including Greyson—were safely behind the bars of their cells.

            He went level by level, carrying a lantern back to the deepest cells, shining the light into each one that he passed until someone at last asked him what he was doing.

            “Looking for a blanket,” he said to the man lounging in a nearby cell, a Canadian named Spencer.

            “Ain’t we all?” the man laughed humorlessly. “I’m guessing you ‘lost’ it last night, eh?”

            “It was stolen.”

            “Finders keepers, boy. The way I figure it most everything in this shithole is ‘stolen.’”

            Bane scowled and moved on.

            “What’s it look like?” Spencer called. “Might’ve seen it.”

            Bane came back, now wondering if Spencer perhaps had the blanket. He eyed him suspiciously and described the cloth and pattern.

            Spencer rubbed the heavy stubble on his jaw, the scratchy sound reminding Bane of the Vulture sanding the chessboard. “Hmm, sounds familiar. I think I did see it.”

            “Where?”

            Spencer grinned. “Might take somethin’ to jog my memory.”

            “Like what?” Bane grumbled.

            Spencer considered for an irritatingly long time, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. When Bane threatened to leave, the Canadian said, “A couple of cigarettes should do it. I even know where you can find some.”

            “Where?”

            “That fucking harelip in the cell next to yours.”

            “Abrams doesn’t smoke.”

            “No, but he knows those of us who do, those of us who can pay. He gets ’em smuggled in when we get resupplied. I figure him and the doc have something going on the side, seeing as how the doc is in charge of what you fellas get.” He winked with a crude chuckle. “Don’t let Assad fool you. He ain’t no Boy Scout.”

            Bane had no idea what a Boy Scout was, nor did he care; all he cared about was Melisande’s blanket. “Two cigarettes?”

            “Sure. That shouldn’t be too hard for you to get, seeing as how you’re buddies with Abrams.”

            “Abrams isn’t anyone’s ‘buddy.’”

            “Well, then why don’t you just wave that blade of yours his way a few times?”

            “I’m not stupid.”

            “Some say you are, especially the one who took your blanket.”

            “It’s not my blanket.”

            “Well, I didn’t think so really. Did the girl send you off to fetch it?” Spencer’s blue eyes glinted with amusement as he clucked his tongue. “Do you know what pussy-whipped means, Bane?”

            Bane bristled. “You don’t know where the blanket is.”

            “Oh? Are you willing to take that chance? What will your girlfriend say when you come back empty-handed, like a dog without the duck?”

            Bane stewed for a moment, his fingers twitching.

            “I’ll tell you what, since I know you’re a _man_ of honor,” Spencer said with sarcastic emphasis, “I’ll tell you who has the blanket as long as you give me your word that I’ll have those cigarettes no later than tomorrow.”

            _Tomorrow_ , Bane thought, _I’ll be gone and you can find your own cigarettes_.

            He forced his anger away and nodded. “Fair enough. You have my word. Now, who has the blanket?”


	35. Chapter 35

            When Omar Alam saw Bane descending the steps, he stood and observed his approach with dark, hooded eyes, wary and searching. Others in the shaft also watched; Bane felt their gazes upon him, but he looked only at Alam. The shaft—while it could not be considered warm—was at a temperature that at least gave the prisoners who lingered there a feeling of comfort compared to their cells. Bane knew Alam to almost always be in the _bawdi_ this time of day, often dozing, a man to whom the pit’s universal chill seemed especially taxing, and so Alam sought the stepwell to counter its effects.

            “What do you want, boy?” Alam asked in Arabic.

            “You know.”

            “If I knew, I would not have asked.”

            Bane drew close and lowered his voice. “The blanket you took from here last night.”

            “I was in my cell last night.”

            Alam said it so convincingly that Bane almost forgot what a notorious liar the Arab was. Or perhaps Spencer was the liar. No, Spencer would find no profit in such a lie, not if he wanted those cigarettes.

            Bane forcefully banished his impatient anger at Alam’s elusiveness, for badgering would not serve him well with this one. Before speaking again, he glanced surreptitiously around them to ensure no one had drawn close enough to hear him. He struggled to find the correct words in the foreign tongue, but at last Melisande’s tutoring paid off. “The owner of that blanket is willing to pay handsomely for its return.”

            Alam’s caution lifted like clouds after a storm. “She has money?”

            Bane fabricated a wily grin. “Something better.”

            “Few things better than money, boy.”

            “I am sure you can think of one.”

            A frown of concentration wrinkled Alam’s forehead beneath his _shemagh_. His gaze wandered the shaft as if in search of the answer there. Frustrated, he looked back to Bane who suggestively raised one eyebrow and smiled, nodding. Realization slowly dawned on Alam, clearing all confusion and morphing it into pure, joyful lust. He leaned toward Bane.

            “You cannot mean—”

            Bane raised his other eyebrow leadingly, his smile broadening though he felt anything but amusement. Indeed all he experienced was disgust at the thoughts he knew spilled through Alam’s mind like a great flood.

            “She will let me in her cell?”

            Bane took a step back. “Of course not.”

            Alam scowled. “Then what—”

            “She can…” he searched for the word, “pleasure you through the bars.”

            The look of ecstasy returned to Alam’s brown face, his eyes now bright. He bent close again, his gaze darting toward the other prisoners in the shaft. “With her mouth, boy, not just her hands.”

            Bane shrugged. “However you like. So you have the blanket?”

            Alam swallowed his drool, nodding.

            “Tonight then.” Bane took another step backward. “When it is late. She does not want anyone else to see; she has her pride, after all. I will come to your cell. If you truly have the blanket as you say, I will take you to her.”

#

            That night several prisoners roamed about well after the time when most retired, and Bane figured they hoped Melisande would be irrational enough to wander from her cell again. Eventually, though, even these desperate ones receded into the bowels of the prison, defeated and cursing their missed opportunity of the previous night. Only then—with both Melisande and Abrams fast asleep—did Bane leave his cell, making sure he did not lock the door behind him.

            Once his preparations were complete, he started for Alam’s cell. Purposefully he carried no form of illumination with him and instead navigated by instinct—by now he could find his way around the entire prison unassisted even if he were completely blind. But his journey to Alam’s cell did not require such skill, for many braziers still glowed in the cells that he passed, like runway markers guiding him deeper down Alam’s corridor. He moved silently, not wanting to draw any attention to his passing; he did not need anyone stumbling toward Melisande’s cell before he returned with Alam.

            Alam was pacing at the front of his cell when Bane arrived, the brazier in the next cell casting weak light against his eager form. Peevishly he hissed in Arabic, “What took you so long, boy?”

            Bane put a finger to his lips for quiet, glancing around but finding no one else awake. He whispered, “Where is the blanket?”

            Alam stepped back to his charpoy then returned, holding a blanket close to the bars. Bane risked detection by striking a match to make quick confirmation that the article was indeed Melisande’s.

            “Give it to me.”

            Alam tsked. “Not so fast, my young friend.” He draped the blanket over his shoulder, anchoring it with a possessive, stroking hand. “Once you take me to her, it is yours.” Alam waited for Bane to step back before he let himself out of his cell and locked the door behind him. Then he gestured with his free hand. “After you.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched and drifted to his hidden knife, a cautious move that he made sure to telegraph to Alam. Then he led the way back up the corridor.

            The closer they drew to Melisande’s cell, the stronger his heart beat and the sharper his senses became, alert to every sound and smell, aware of any possible shift in the air or intrusive smell that would signal the movement of someone beyond his sight. Purposefully and gradually he shortened his strides, just enough so Alam would not notice while at the same time stepping more to the side, allowing his eager companion room to draw abreast. Alam, however, had not let his unbridled lasciviousness completely dull his awareness, for he shifted the blanket to his shoulder opposite Bane.

            “You had better not be lying to me, boy,” Alam rasped.

            “I’m not. You will see; she is expecting you.”

            Alam gave a low, private chuckle as his pace increased. Soon they arrived at the point where the corridor reached its limit near the stepwell and connected with the corridor that led past Bane’s cellblock. Alam hesitated a moment as if to catch his breath, his hand against a pillar.

            “Does she do these things for you?” he whispered, so quiet that Bane barely heard him.

            “No, I am just a boy and an infidel; she prefers men like you, Omar.”

            Now there was no need for subtlety in Bane’s positioning, for Alam surged ahead of him. Bane had to hurry to keep up. As they moved along the cell fronts, Bane counted each pillar that they passed, for he needed to time this correctly; he could not interfere until the moment just before Alam passed in front of his cell. And with no true light in the corridor he had only the pillars on his right as a guide, outlined vaguely against the open shaft beyond.

            Alam faltered, and Bane nearly ran into him.

            “Which one?” Alam whispered.

            “Keep going. Four more,” he lied.

            The Arab made an anticipatory sound in his throat then started forward again. Bane kept up with him, counted two more pillars, stretched out his right hand toward the blanket over Alam’s shoulder.

            “Melisande,” Alam softly called. “Where are—?”

            His foot caught on the trip wire stretched across the narrow corridor just as Bane’s left hand shoved him from behind.

            “Wha—?”

            Alam sprawled face first across the stone pavement, leaving Bane holding the blanket. In the next instant Bane escaped behind the safety of his cell door.

            The Arab roared to his feet and leapt at Bane’s cell. Cursing at the top of his voice, he violently shook the door as if to rip it from its hinges, waking everyone within hearing distance. Dozens of voices shouted out for quiet, but Alam’s rage continued, his hands futilely reaching through the bars in an attempt to locate his quarry. Bane stood out of reach in the darkness, the blanket hugged to his chest. Melisande urgently spoke his name, her hand stretching through the bars to his charpoy in search of him, but he remained silent, eyes upon Alam’s faint, writhing silhouette, drawn in fascination to the man’s spewing tirade. Distantly, as if removed from the scene, he wondered why Alam’s threats did not strike fear into him. Instead he felt a calm triumph, almost reveling in his victim’s defeat.

            After spitting at Bane one last time, Alam moved to Melisande’s cell, turning his verbal wrath on her as he rattled her door. Meanwhile the nearest prisoners cursed and shouted at him for quiet until finally their heightened threats to come out of their cells and thrash him broke through his blind fury.

            Alam stepped back from the door, breathing hard. “Someday, bitch, you and your little maggot will answer to me for this.”

            “Get the hell out of here,” Abrams ordered. “Now…before I come out there and throw your greasy ass down the shaft.”

            Alam fell silent, hesitated. He spat one last time at Melisande, though she had retreated to the rear of her cell long ago. Then he felt his way to the trip wire where, in a final burst of anger, he reached down and severed it in a frenzy of tearing fingers. With one last oath, he disappeared into the darkness.

            “Jesus Christ, Bane,” Abrams grumbled, rolling over on his charpoy. “You’re going to turn us all into insomniacs.” He pulled his blanket over his head and said nothing more as the other voices around them faded.

            Bane remained standing a moment longer until Melisande returned to her charpoy and softly called to him. He drifted to his bed.

            “What was all that about?” she asked. “What did you do?”

            Bane pushed the blanket toward her. “I got your blanket back.”

            “What?” She touched the cloth in disbelief then drew it through the bars, and with a small gasp pressed it to her face. “That man had it?”

            Bane explained how he had found the blanket and lured Alam here. “I used your yarn to make a trip wire.” He went to his front bars where the ends of several strands—all the yarn he had—were tied; he loosened the knots and pulled what remained into his cell. Then he slipped outside to retrieve the other strands that were tied to the pillar. “He broke them before he left, though,” he said when he returned to his charpoy with the balled up yarn, “so we won’t have much use for it. Here.” Bane pushed what was left through the bars to her.

            “Bane…” She hugged the blanket again. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so very grateful, but you must stop putting yourself in danger for my sake.”

            “But that blanket is special to you.”

            “Yes, of course, but… Please, you must promise me you won’t do anything like this again.”

            He smiled. “I won’t need to. We won’t be here in a couple of days.”

            Melisande sighed in frustration and was kind enough not to speak against his belief that they would soon escape. “Then it will cost you nothing to promise me this, yes?”

            He shrugged. “All right.” Of course, even if he did not escape, there would be no opportunity for the blanket to be stolen again since Melisande would remain in her cell, so the promise was indeed an easy one to make. He shifted over to his pillow and crawled under his blankets, though he was not in the least tired and his blood still raced splendidly through his veins, making him feel very much alive.

            Melisande, too, settled back down, and he felt her gaze upon him when she spoke again, “Someday I will tell my husband about you, about all you have done for me.”

            Bane smiled at the thought. Perhaps Henri Ducard could help him find his father. Surely the man would give him whatever he asked once he knew what he had done for his wife. The thoughts stirred by such an idea kept Bane awake long after Melisande had drifted off, wrapped in the comfort of her husband’s blanket.


	36. Chapter 36

            When Bane awoke the next morning, he decided not to visit the stepwell or accompany the doctor on his rounds. With only one day to go before his climb, he felt it safer to remain in his cell, for he fully expected Omar Alam to be bent on revenge; better to let the man cool off while he rested for tomorrow. Nor did he want to hear any more of the doctor’s disparaging words about his plans or about any of his other recent decisions.

            However, there was no escaping Abrams. The man awoke shortly after Bane and sat on his charpoy staring as Bane washed his face in a basin.

            “So what was it this time, boy? I’m guessing the two of you weren’t out in the shaft again.”

            “Of course not.” He dried his face. “Omar had stolen Melisande’s blanket, so I got it back from him.”

            “Didn’t sound like a friendly negotiation.”

            “Decidedly not,” Bane grinned.

            With a small smile, Abrams shook his head and got up to make breakfast.

            Remembering his deal with Spencer, Bane shuffled over to the bars that separated their cells. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Melisande was still asleep. “I had to buy information to find the blanket, though.”

            Abrams searched his pantry, scratching himself as he did so. “From who?”

            “Aaron Spencer.”

            Abrams grunted, did not turn from his quest.

            “I promised him two cigarettes.” Bane waited for a response of any kind but was disappointed. He frowned and pressed on. “Know where I might get a couple?”

            “Maybe. What are you willing to trade for ’em?”

            Thinking of his impending escape, he knew he could afford to be profligate. “Food or charcoal.”

            Abrams grunted again. “I’ll see what I can do.”

            Bane spent the morning reading and working out while Melisande slept on; she got up only for a small bite to eat. Around midday Bane took a nap and did not awaken until Aaron Spencer stopped by in search of his cigarettes. By then Abrams was gone from his cell.

            “I haven’t forgotten my promise,” Bane insisted. “Stop by before dark and I’ll have them for you.”

            “You’d better, boy, or else I might have to help ol’ Omar skin you alive.” With a threatening glower, the Canadian moved off.

            “What was that about?” Melisande asked from where she now sat on a stool near the front of her cell, crocheting the baby blanket.

            “Nothing.”

            He listened for Gola’s movements beyond the blanket, but the man was apparently asleep. The doctor had checked his bandages earlier and dosed him again. Bane rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up, watching Melisande’s graceful hands for some time in silence.

            She looked up and smiled at Bane’s thoughtful expression, her fingers never stopping in their rhythmic work. “What is it?”

            He went to the front of his cell and looked up the shaft as far as he could see. “We need to talk about tomorrow.”

            “What about it?” Her tone was light, trying to convince him that she had forgotten about his plans.

            Bane turned to her, his fingers closing around the side bars. “Don’t believe what the doctor said yesterday. He will help; I know he will. After I make the climb and throw the ropes down, you have to stay in your cell until everyone is out of the prison. The doctor will wait, too, so he can help you. I’m sure I can get Hans and maybe Yemi or Abrams to help me at the top. We can pull you up; you’ll just need to guide yourself along the wall.”

            “Bane—”

            “Or I can come back down to get you if you want or if Doctor Assad refuses to help.”

            Frowning, she rested her work in her lap. “The doctor is right, you know, about all of this being my fault. It would have been best if I had not encouraged our friendship.”

            He hid the hurt that her remark caused. “No, he’s not right. Even if we weren’t friends, I’d still help you.”

            “Why? The others here are not my friends, and they would never help me as you have.”

            “Because…well, because you’re a woman. I protected my mother.”

            “Did you take your mother out to the shaft?”

            “No. She never asked to go. She didn’t want to put herself in danger.”

            “No, she knew it would put _you_ in danger, Bane. And that’s what I should have been thinking about. My father always said I was reckless. That is what he said about my marriage to Henri. My poor choices almost led to Henri being sent here. How could I have lived with myself? And how will I live with myself if you die trying to rescue _me_.”

            “It’s not just for you.”

            “Then who is it for? Gola? Greyson? Ramzi?”

            Bane scowled. “Of course not. _I_ want to escape. I want to find my father.”

            She sadly shook her head. “The doctor told me that you were not planning to attempt the climb until you were older and stronger. It is my presence that makes you do it now. And I am asking you not to put that burden on me or yourself. If you must do it, wait until you _are_ older and stronger.”

            “But then your baby will be born here.” He caught himself and pressed his lips together, catching the rise of Melisande’s eyebrows.

            “Do you see what I mean? You _are_ doing this because of me.”

            Bane regretted ever bringing up the subject. He turned away from the bars. “I’m going to do it. There’s nothing you can say that will stop me.”

            “What if the doctor is right about your father, about how it would be dangerous for you to look for him?”

            “You will look for your husband, won’t you?”

            “Of course.”

            “It’s no different.”

            “It is, Bane. My husband knows I exist; your father doesn’t know about you—”

            “Stop it!” Bane wheeled back toward her, his tortured expression startling her into silence. He stared at her, angry and injured at the same time, though he figured she had used such cutting words only to discourage him from helping her.

            “What’s this?” Abrams’s voice turned Bane. “A lovers’ quarrel?” Returning from the stepwell, the man paused outside his cell, grinning.

            Bane’s face reddened and he reached for the key around his neck.

            Abrams’s words halted him. “Have something for you, boy.” He stepped inside his cell then withdrew two cigarettes from beneath his tunic. “Two days’ worth of charcoal. Not a bad price, I’d say.”

            Bane felt Melisande’s curious gaze upon them, for she knew neither of them smoked. He nodded to Abrams and went to retrieve the charcoal. Once the exchange was made, Bane decided to take the chance and slip over to Hans’s cell to work out, to avoid any further discussion with Melisande. He needed to make sure the doctor had indeed not swayed the big man from holding the rope tomorrow when he climbed.


	37. Chapter 37

            Bane had decided to make the climb as soon as morning light fully illuminated the shaft. He did not want to wait until later in the day when the temperature would rise, for he did not want sweat to make his hands slippery or trickle into his eyes. When he awoke, he ate a hearty breakfast, frying up the last of his meat along with three eggs. Then, while he waited for his food to digest and fuel him, he sat near his door and crocheted to calm his racing heart and mind.

            Melisande was awake, but they did not speak, and he figured that she hoped her silence would further discourage his plans. As his gaze trailed up the shaft, he tried to tune out her movements. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and visualized the climb, inch by inch, the stone outcroppings beneath his hands and feet, imagined the light growing ever brighter the higher he progressed, felt the rope around his torso, the clothes upon his body, their weight, felt the sun as it chased away the cold bite of the shaft.

            A short time later he packed rations in a small sack then rolled this up in a blanket. Removing his tunic, he slung the blanket across his shoulder, snugged it against his shirt. He felt Abrams’s eyes upon him from his charpoy, but he did not return his gaze, and the man remained silent. Bane took a final look around his cell then turned for the door.

            “Bane.”

            Melisande’s distraught hail caught him as she hurried to the side bars. He told himself not to listen to her, to open his door and leave, but the emotion in her voice caused him to falter.

            “Bane, look at me. Please.”

            He swallowed hard in a dry throat, steeled himself, and met her desperate gaze.

            “Please don’t do this. I’m begging you.” Her hand stretched toward him.

            Hans emerged from the morning shadows, his curiosity drawn to Melisande though he addressed Bane, “You ready?”

            Bane pulled away from Melisande’s tearful stare, fought away the desire to take her hand for perhaps the last time. No, he must not think that way; he would succeed. He would not have to look upon this place again. He would see the sun. He would find his father. And Melisande would find Henri Ducard; their child would not be born in darkness.

            Rallying his resolve, he left his cell and locked it behind him. Then he paused long enough near Melisande to hand his key to her. When he spoke, his voice lacked the usual strength: “In case I don’t make it. Tell Doctor Assad that I said he’s to give you whatever you want from my cell.”

            Her tears now spilled over, but she made no sound. Her hands closed around his, would not let him go until he forcefully pried himself away. The sight of her tears made him think of his mother, so he quickly left her, following Hans into the shaft.

            Of course word had circulated among the inmates about his attempt, and already two dozen men were spread throughout the stepwell, some attending to their morning routine at the pool, but all halting whatever they were doing when Bane entered their midst. He found himself wishing he were alone, that no one would watch him or even know of his climb. Those numerous eyes only added to the strain that had been building in him all night and morning. This was not a climb just for himself or Melisande, no matter what he proclaimed; it was for all of them. He carried with him every prisoner’s hopes.

            The Vulture’s words came back to haunt him: “You think hope makes you strong. But it’s hope that will destroy you.”

            Bane pushed aside the taunt, paused to look toward the brightening sky so far above. The shaft appeared as a massive gun barrel, the rock outcroppings spiraling like the rifling inside the barrel, up and up, beyond the block and tackle from which the safety rope hung, up to the ledges just below the rim. Would he make it as far as the ledges? Exactly how many feet away were they? Five hundred, some said. Could he sustain the strength needed to traverse that daunting distance?

            He glanced around at the men silently watching. Some regarded him with skepticism, others with amusement, yet others with unbridled, desperate hope. The latter spoke encouragement and wished him luck, reminding him—as if he needed to be reminded—to toss down the ropes for them once he reached the top. Ramzi crouched not far from him, already wagering against him as were others, their hawkish bets called out for him to hear. Omar Alam was there as well but made no move toward him nor said a word. Of course today was not the day to seek vengeance, not when his victim could very well be his savior in a short while.

            Doctor Assad was nowhere in sight. Bane wondered if his threats had been genuine.

            When Bane reached for the rope, he turned briefly to look back toward Melisande’s cell. He could make out her face there in the shadow of the overhang, like a lily floating on a dark pond.

            Hans drew his attention back to the task when he quietly asked, “Are you sure about this? No shame in trying another day.”

            Not trusting his voice, Bane shook his head, hands firm on the rope. Hans tied it around his torso, the coarseness of the hemp scratching through the threadbare shirt.

            The first obstacle was a formidable one. Around the whole circumference of the shaft, about seven feet above the top of the stepwell, a thick stone ledge jutted out some three or four feet from the wall. With the help of a stool kept beneath the overhang, Bane leapt up and grabbed a hold of the craggy rock face. The pressure Hans applied on the rope through the distant block steadied him as he swung his feet against the wall beneath the ledge for leverage. He paused there like an awkward spider, steadying his breathing before he struggled up and over the ledge.

            He glanced down at Hans who provided a tight smile of encouragement and a nod. Yesterday when they had discussed the climb, Bane had cautioned him not to interfere. No one who manned the tackle fall was allowed to do anything except break the climber’s fall should he fail in his attempt. Those in the past who had defied their jailers’ rules had suffered dire consequences—anything from torture to death. There was any number of prisoners who would dutifully report such disobedience in exchange for a reward from their jailers ranging from creature comforts to communications with family or friends outside the pit or even relocation to one of the cells near the shaft. Bane had secured Hans’s promise that he would do nothing beyond his usual duty, for he did not want to be responsible for Hans's suffering.

            Now, with the shaft yawning before him, ready to chew him up and spit him back down, the chant began.

            “ _Deshi basara_ …” Low at first, almost soft, ragged, uncoordinated, just a few voices.

            Bane hesitated, closed his eyes, breathed deep, tried to calm his heartbeat and the tremble that had started in his limbs.

            “Remember,” Hans called. “Don’t look down.”

            The German had warned him of the lure for a climber to look back to where he had stood solid and safe on the stone pavement, of how such a flaw would work against him as strongly as gravity itself. Hans knew, of course, because he had made that same mistake years ago during his first attempt to climb.

            At last Bane opened his eyes and started upward.


	38. Chapter 38

            Bane climbed...one handhold, one foothold after the next, slow and methodical, his face only an inch from the cool wall, his eyes always focused on the next outcropping. His blanket roll scraped against the wall, making him wish he had left it behind.

            “ _Deshi basara_!”

            The chant gained volume, rose up toward him like a wave, pushing him on, giving him strength, singular voices now joined together in a rare moment of unity among the condemned. How many times had he been among those below? How many times had he lent his own voice to that chant? How many times had he watched men rise up only to crash back down again?

            The first fifty feet, the first one hundred feet...behind him now. He paused, closed his eyes for a moment and pressed his warm cheek against the rock. The spacing of some of the outcroppings taxed his reach, and he wished once again that he were older, taller, stronger. He focused on his breathing, struggled to regulate it, keep the fear out of his lungs.

            Upward. Fifty more feet. Fatigue already fought for command of his muscles. The trembling had worsened. He quietly cursed, pressed on. Even with his body tight against the rock, he had begun to sweat, forcing him to wipe one hand at a time against his shirt to keep his grip sure. The roughness of the outcroppings had abraded the thin leather of his shoes and would no doubt soon abrade the flesh beneath it.

            “ _Deshi basara_!”

            The chant sounded frustratingly close, tempting him to look down to better gauge his progress, but he managed to refuse the urge and struggle onward.

            He counted each foothold, tried to focus only on that, on the ever rising total, on reducing the space between himself and the sky. The immensity of the shaft made him feel like nothing more than a fly trapped upon an enormous web, each movement more difficult than the previous. How many minutes had it been since he had started? It seemed like hours. He grunted and groaned with the effort now, his breathing coming hard, his lungs burning. His growing weakness seemed to feed the relentless pull of gravity, as if he carried a heavy pack that threatened to pull him off the wall.

            Another thirty feet. He was not even halfway. Doubts came streaming in. His knees felt like rubber, losing their ability to push upward. He was forced to stop again and cling to the wall, eyes closed. Desperate, he pictured his mother, pictured Melisande. Their images gave him strength, calmed him, allowed him to wait then to move on.

            He had lost count of his footholds and so started fresh, though now his progress had slowed so much that the chant had lost some of the will to continue. The voices reflected discouragement, the chant’s volume lowering instead of rising, no longer providing fuel to the blood pumping through him and now drumming in his ears, muffling all sound. Perhaps it was the fault of this dampening that made the chant seem deadened. Perhaps, in truth, their voices were as fervent as ever. Surely no one _wanted_ him to fail.

            Bane thought again of the Vulture, of his harsh words and the coldness behind them. He thought of the blood pouring from the man, of his plea for help, of the light leaving his eyes. Again he heard the disparaging comments, the venom behind them. Perhaps the Vulture was right after all.

            His muscles screamed at him, mocked him, halted his progress once again. Closing his eyes, he fought the desire to look back, to beg Hans to lower him, for he knew he did not even have the strength left to climb back down. No, there was only one way to go. But how?

            Finally he opened his eyes and looked for the next handhold. The jutting rock taunted him, for it was just beyond his reach, a distance that only allowed his outstretched fingers to graze it. Dear God, he would have to somehow jump those few inches in order to reach it. In vain his eyes searched the nearby wall for any other handhold. If he could move just to the left, the line of outcroppings that spiraled upward there could be reached. Tentatively his left foot slid along the curving wall, his toes feeling for another rock yet finding none. But there had to be one, he thought in desperation as panic fought to control him. He needed to look...just a quick glance to find it...it had to be there...

            His gaze dropped to his left foot, but instead of finding that which he sought all he saw was the yawning chasm below. His breath caught, his eyes widened, drawn down to the inmates chanting below, to the pool...how different it looked from here...not like water at all but a mirror...a mirror in which he appeared like a deformity against the circle of sky above, protruding from the wall. The image hypnotized him. His weight shifted as if attracted by a magnet. His left foot came down before he realized he had found no place to put it. He gasped and grabbed wildly for the outcropping to the left, but it was too far above him. His fingernails scratched against the wall, a pitiful sound, and then he was gone.

            He screamed; there was no denying the terror as he plunged downward, close to the wall. Wildly he tried to catch himself on the blurred rocks, struck one with his foot, bounced away from the wall and any hope. Then the rope caught him, slammed him to a halt, bit hard beneath his arms. Pain shot through his right shoulder, tore away his breath and killed his outcry. His other hand clung to the rope where it stretched away above him. Desperate to escape the burning agony in his shoulder, he tried in vain to pull himself slightly up, to slacken the pressure beneath his armpits and thus his injured limb. He hung there, helpless, hopeless, gently swinging.

            Then the face of the shaft—obscure in his fall—began to slip slowly past with torturous detail as Hans lowered him with care lest the rope looped around him should slip upward. The chant had died, and all Bane heard were distant, disgruntled voices, some calling up to him in derision, but the pain in his shoulder overrode any ability or desire to hear detail. All he wanted was to touch solid ground again.

            By the time he reached the rim above the stepwell, his shoulder’s throbbing had brought tears to his eyes. Most of the prisoners had collected or paid their wagers and left the shaft or returned to the pool. As he crawled to the edge of the rim, his entire body burning with exhaustion, he caught Ramzi’s eye. The Arab stood next to Omar Alam. Both men grinned at one another and laughed at him before turning away.

            “Bane,” Hans called. “Swing your legs over the side and I’ll help you.”

            “My shoulder is dislocated,” he said through gritted teeth.

            “ _Ja_ , I can see that. Just do the best you can. I’ll catch you.”

            There was no easy or painless way down. On his belly, he swung his legs over the edge, his bruised feet feeling along the face of the ledge. With the aid of his left hand he slid cautiously backward and down until his feet dangled just below the ledge. He hung there for a moment, afraid to let go, but then what little strength remained in his left arm gave way, and he scraped down the ledge facing and fell into Hans’s grasp.

            The jarring of his shoulder strangled an outcry from him and made breathing difficult. Hans carefully set him on his feet, but Bane’s knees gave way, and he slumped to the stone pavement.

            “It’s all right,” Hans said in a quiet, sympathetic voice. “Rest easy while I take off this rope.”

            Bane could barely hold his head up, could barely think of anything except the throbbing of his deformed shoulder. Someone drew near; Bane saw only his feet, too tired to look up. But he knew it was the doctor. Shame kept his gaze downward.

            “Let’s get him back to his cell,” Assad said flatly. “I’ll reduce the dislocation there.”

            Hans slipped a hand beneath Bane’s left arm to help him up. Grinding his teeth together to keep from crying out again, Bane somehow made his feet move, thankful that Hans kept a hold on him as they circled the shaft.

            “Not bad, kid.”

            At the sound of Abrams’s voice, Bane looked up. Abrams leaned against a pillar not far from their cells, picking his teeth with a blunt fingernail. The man paused long enough to display a small grin.

            “At least you’re in one piece.” He winked and tossed a bruised mango up in the air and caught it. “And you won me this. I suppose I should share it with you, considering.”

            Bane did not respond, for he took no pleasure in knowing Abrams’s fruit was gained through his very public failure.

            Melisande was standing at the front of her cell, fingers wrapped around the bars, her knuckles drained white, wide eyes upon Bane. He glanced up only for an instant, too humiliated to do otherwise.

            Gola called from his cell, “Knew you wouldn’t make it, boy. Serves you right. Too bad you didn’t break your neck instead. Maybe next time...if you have the balls to try again.”

            Ignoring Gola, Melisande reached through her bars, saying, “I have his key,” as she handed it to the doctor.

            Wordlessly Assad opened his door, and Bane stumbled in with Hans’s aid. The big German eased him down to his charpoy.

            “Lie on your back,” the doctor instructed, his tone still frigid with displeasure.

            Melisande hurried to her own charpoy. “Is there anything I can do, Doctor?”

            “You have done enough.”

            If not for the overpowering pain, Bane would have admonished Assad, although to do so might be foolhardy considering the man was the only one who could fix his shoulder. So instead he glanced at Melisande to impart solidarity, but her gaze was diverted, her face red with embarrassment.

            Assad knelt next to him and took hold of his right wrist with one hand. “Try to relax. Keep your elbow against the charpoy.”

            As he gradually bent Bane’s arm to a ninety degree angle, his left hand slowly massaged his shoulder. Then carefully he manipulated the arm and shoulder. Bane squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, praying it would soon be over.

            “Relax,” the doctor breathed.

            Melisande took his left hand in her gentle grip, giving him strength and consolation, though he still could not look at her.

            His shoulder made a small popping sound, and the pain lifted as Assad successfully completed the reduction. Bane freed a long sigh, his whole body relaxing. As the doctor folded his arm against his chest, he opened his eyes. Hans smiled at him.

            “I will make you a sling,” the doctor said. “Keep it immobilized at least until tomorrow. I will check you then. You have some abrasions as well. You will want to clean them. Do you have soap?”

            “Yes.”

            “Well,” Hans said, “I’ll be on my way now that the doc has you fixed up. Come over for a game of backgammon if you feel up to it later, Bane.”

            “Thanks, Hans...for everything.”

            His gratitude brought uncharacteristic color to the German’s rawboned face. Hans simply nodded once in acknowledgement before leaving.

            Doctor Assad followed Hans out. “I’ll be back with the sling,” he said.

            Apathy toward his abrasions would have kept Bane on his charpoy, but cleaning them gave him an excuse to further avoid Melisande. He poured water from his pitcher onto a rag and rubbed soap against it.

            “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Melisande said.

            Bane did not respond. He expected her to say more but was relieved when she refrained.

            Soon Assad returned with a sling made from what appeared to be an old tunic. He helped Bane into it and knotted it behind his neck. Then he checked the abrasions on Bane's cheek, hands, and feet as well as the burn left by the rope beneath his arms.

            “Leave your shirt off for a bit to let those dry,” Assad ordered after daubing antiseptic and a thin layer of aloe on the burns.

            Bane, seated on his charpoy once again, was troubled by how much he suddenly wished Assad would forgive him for his transgressions. He blamed this weakness on his low spirits. Tomorrow he would accompany Assad on his rounds; perhaps that would help put him back in the doctor’s good graces. He did not want the man resenting Melisande for what he had done on her behalf; no one would need medical care more than Melisande now and in the months to come. So perhaps if Assad could forgive him, he would also forgive her, and things could return to normal.

            “Here is your key back.”

            Bane draped the rawhide string around his neck and forced himself to meet Assad’s gaze. He murmured, “Thank you for treating me.”

            Assad grunted and turned for the door, but before he did Bane thought he caught a softening in the man’s eyes.


	39. Chapter 39

            The next morning when Bane accompanied Doctor Assad on his rounds, he found little desire to talk and concentration difficult to achieve. If the doctor noticed, he did not comment. Bane, though even more sore than yesterday, refused any of Assad’s painkillers. Once back in his cell he lacked motivation to do anything but return to his charpoy, saying nothing to Melisande who was busy with her work on the baby blanket. In time he drifted off.

            When he awoke it was close to evening, the light from the shaft struggling to survive. He remembered his closer view of the sky yesterday, so tempting, so seductive, but in the end crueler than ever before. A deeper melancholy settled upon him.

            “Hans stopped by to see you,” Melisande said. “He wanted to know how you are.”

            Bane slowly sat up, stiff and uncomfortable.

            Gola came scraping along the cell block on his makeshift crutches and scowled at him as he passed.

            Melisande persisted. “How is your shoulder?”

            “Fine,” he mumbled, staring at his cold brazier. Normally the stepwell would be calling to him by now, but today he had no desire to go there, not even to wash. Melisande had some items for him to launder, he knew. Tomorrow, he told himself. After all, what difference would one more day make?

            Absently he stared at his fingernails, torn and ragged from the climb. As his thoughts drifted back to yesterday, he discovered that the experience had sewn a seed of fear. The realization shook him, made him wonder if he could ever make a second attempt. Surely not now; he would only have the same results. No, he needed to be older, stronger, just as he had always said before Melisande’s arrival. Now, having tried too early and failed, would the terror left behind keep him always here? Had the fall stolen his courage as well as his resolve? Unable to find the answer, he shivered and drew his blanket around him.

            Again Melisande tried to engage him, conjuring lightness in her voice. “Shall we read aloud tonight, Bane?”

            His gaze remained on the brazier, and he thought of Osito, burned to ash. “No,” he murmured. “Not tonight.” Then he lay back down, his back toward her so she could not see his tears.

#

            Bane awoke early the next morning, just as true light stretched down into the shaft and played against the bars at the front of his cell. For a time he watched as the light gradually strengthened, though it could certainly never be considered strong, no matter how bright the world above. The prison produced little sound, only a single distant voice from down one of the corridors and Abrams fixing his breakfast.

            Tentative, Bane tested his shoulder. Improvement. With disdain he considered the sling left on the floor before kicking it across his cell when he sat up. His muscles continued to ache, but there was progress there as well, and he would feel better still once the night’s cold eased. No doubt activity would help as well.

            He dragged one of his blankets around him and stood, shuffled toward the door. With a glance back, he saw that Melisande still slept, her dark cloud of hair wild upon her pillow, her expression peaceful, beautiful. Troubled by thoughts of how he had failed her, he left for the stepwell.

            There were three others at the pool when he arrived, but he spoke to no one, ignored their glances. He removed the blanket from around his shoulders, folded it, and sat on it at the edge of the water. After rolling up his pants, he slowly slipped his bare feet and calves into the chilly water. He removed his _shemagh_ , ran a hand over his bristly head. Maybe he would let his hair grow out...but not as long as Melisande’s, he thought with the shadow of an amused smile reflected back from the pool. A couple of times a week he would carry water to her so she could wash her hair in a large basin. Sometimes he would watch her, though he did so secretively. Afterwards she would trail her fingers through the long tresses to untangle them, then she would take a comb to it. Once dry she would brush the dark mahogany mane before braiding it and regrettably covering it with her _shemagh_. Often he wondered what it would feel like to run his fingers through her hair.

            Now he looked down into the water, touched the abrasion on his cheek. When he was grown, would women find him attractive? He frowned. If he remained down here, what would it matter? He berated such stupidity and started to wash.

            Again his thoughts returned to the failed climb, taking his concentration away from his surroundings. Last night sleep had only come in fits and starts. In dreams he scaled the shaft again and again, but each time he fell. There was no rope, so he plunged downward in an endless flight into blackness until he awoke flailing, which in turn sent pain radiating through his shoulder. He had inadvertently awoke Melisande once. When she whispered an inquiry, he pretended to have fallen back asleep, feeling guilty even as he did so. After all, his failure was not her fault. She might misconstrue his reticence for blame, and that was not the reason behind his silence at all. Yet how could he explain to her what he felt? It was that confusion that made him diffident.

            Something caused Bane to lift his attention from the pool’s surface. He realized he had been staring at his reflection for some time, though not really seeing himself. A prisoner across from him was using his _shemagh_ to dry his face, his gaze reaching beyond Bane. Then the man’s movements slowed before freezing altogether. Surprise smoothed his forehead, his attention dropped to Bane, and his mouth opened as if about to warn him.

            Bane processed the significance of the observer’s reaction a split second too late—the blow struck him from behind and sent him face first into the pool. Before he could regain his feet in the chest-deep water, hands pressed against him, one against his head, one against his injured shoulder, keeping him below the surface. Panicked, he struggled, tried to shout, swallowed water and choked, heard muffled voices from above. Then he remembered his knife...

            He fumbled the blade from its sheath, but the water robbed him of speed and force as he slashed at his attacker’s legs. But it was enough; the prisoner freed him. Bane found his footing and came up swinging, but there was no one within range. Laughter assailed his ears from those around the pool, those except for one man who was walking away, unhurried, wet below the waist, carrying Bane’s blanket. He tossed one triumphant glance over his shoulder as he made for the nearest steps.

            Omar Alam.

            “Stop!” Bane cried, though he knew it was a pointless command. He splashed to the edge of the pool, the knife still in hand. As he struggled to haul himself out of the pool, his shoulder caused him to wince and momentarily flounder, the weight of his wet clothing trying to pull him back.

            Alam had already reached the next level by the time Bane gained the steps, but the man appeared in no hurry, confident, smug with his occasional backward glances. The prisoners at the pool called out encouragement to both Alam and Bane. None moved to intervene. Bane slipped a couple of times because of the water streaming from him, bruising his shins against the stone.

            Almost to the top of the stepwell, Alam chanced one last look back, grinning. Bane had almost caught up. Alam turned away to make his final push for the top but came to an abrupt halt. The grin fled his face, and he was forced to turn sideways in order to see both Bane’s threat from below and the new threat from above.

            Surprise momentarily suspended Bane’s charge as his eyes jumped to the top of the steps and found Abrams blocking the Arab’s path. His arms were crossed against his chest, his gaze hard and unflinching.

            “Get out of my way,” Alam demanded in heavily-accented English.

            “After you give the boy his blanket back.”

            Bane halted a couple of steps below Alam, the knife thrust before him, though he hoped not to use it, not with memories of the Vulture having recently come back to disturb him. And seeing Abrams step in where he had never done so for anyone before also stayed his hand; he was curious to see exactly how far the man might go.

            Alam’s head was on a swivel as he tried to determine who was the most likely to attack. Bane was satisfied to see Alam’s eyes more often on him. Perhaps it was because of the knife; perhaps it was because he knew Bane had far more motivation than Abrams.

            “He stole _my_ blanket,” Alam insisted.

            “Don’t play me for a fool, Omar. I know damn well that blanket was Melisande’s.”

            “So you are protecting the bitch now, too?”

            Abrams’s eyes darkened, and his hands dropped to his sides. “Give him the blanket or I’ll hold you down so he can slice off your balls.” He cocked one eyebrow. “Is it really worth all that?”

            Alam’s jaw muscles clenched, his hands restless upon the blanket. Bane noticed Hans enter the stepwell, two levels below but within clear sight of what was happening. Alam saw him as well, and any resistance or fight remaining in the Arab vanished. With an oath, he wadded the blanket and threw it at Bane. Stoic, Abrams stepped aside, and Alam stormed past, never looking back.

            Bane, sheathing his knife, thanked Abrams. He expected the man to say nothing, to simply continue on his way to the pool, but instead he came only as far as where Bane stood, his expression turbulent, making his cleft lip appear almost sinister.

            “You’re lucky, boy. He could have drowned you.”

            “Not with so many witnesses.”

            “Sure, that’s why he didn’t, but he could have. You can’t count on witnesses to keep you alive.”

            Abrams’s transition from accomplice to remonstrator quickly soured Bane’s gratitude. He started to turn away, to return to the pool to recover his _shemagh_ , but Abrams stopped him with an iron grip on his left arm. Surprised and angry, Bane tried in vain to shrug him off.

            “You’ve had your head up your ass since you fell yesterday, moping around like a spoiled little girl who just lost her doll. And look what it almost got you—drowned.”

            Bane tried again to break free. “What do you know?”

            “If you can stow your prick attitude for one minute, I’ll tell you what I know.” He had leaned down so their faces were close. “I _know_ that yesterday you did something most _men_ in here have never even tried to do, something most will never do.”

            “So what?”

            “So, if you plan to stay alive in order to protect Melisande and her baby—”

            “Baby?”

            “I live twelve feet away from her, Bane. It’s not too hard to figure out when she’s puking her guts out most mornings.” Abrams straightened and freed Bane’s arm. “Now, as I was saying…if you have any sense, you’ll focus on how far you climbed yesterday, not on how far you fell. If you don’t, you won’t live long enough to see that baby born. Then what good will you be to Melisande?” He pinned a final displeased look on Bane. “Now you’d better go fetch your _shemagh_ from down below before someone else takes advantage of your sorry state.”


	40. Chapter 40

            Bane did his best to take Abrams’s advice to heart. After all, there was wisdom in it. From that day forward, whenever another prisoner used his failed escape attempt as verbal weaponry, Bane had a ready retort, words he wielded easily because those who mocked him were all men who had never braved the climb themselves. Soon no one risked mentioning his misfortune, and though their silence helped heal Bane’s wounded pride, he carried the emotional scars from the fall nonetheless. For now he kept them buried from himself and all others, especially Melisande.

            As the days slipped by, he lapsed into his old routine of spending mornings with the doctor, afternoons working out and studying with tutors or by himself in the shaft, and evenings with Melisande, reading aloud, crocheting, or just talking. He continued to gamble as well, especially so he could provide extra rations for Melisande whose belly seemed to grow right before his eyes. There were several arranged fights in the shaft to wager on; Yemi continued to defeat all comers, as did Hans, but still the Nigerian could not defeat the German when they battled yet again. While Bane benefited from betting on Hans, he admired Yemi’s stubborn determination to challenge his nemesis no matter how long it took to perhaps someday tip the scale in his direction.

            Once Melisande’s body betrayed her condition to the rest of the inmates, reactions varied in two specific directions. Some now viewed her with silent respect; those were most often men who Bane knew to have children of their own in their old lives before the pit. Then there were those who baited her with remarks about the paternity of her child, spreading rumors that she had sold sex when she had first come to the pit, and that the father was among the prison population. A few even made accusations that Bane had impregnated her, that she had seduced him. Those who made such claims in Bane’s presence found themselves fending off a flurry of blows. The confrontations, however, frequently ended badly for Bane since his tormentors were often nearly twice his weight and did not take kindly to his physical defense of Melisande’s honor.

            Privately Bane acknowledged a bit of pride knowing that others thought him mature enough to lie with Melisande and desired enough to be seduced. If his mother were alive, he was convinced that the other prisoners would never consider such a thing possible, seeing him still as but an insignificant child. Now, having the idea sown into his head, Bane’s curiosity about the act increased. But, of course, there was no one with whom he could discuss such a thing. Though he could speak with the doctor on a medical level about it, he could never rally the nerve to talk about the personal aspect. Perhaps one day he would be bold enough to ask Hans for more detail. Having only his mother’s feminine point of view thus far left him believing that he had only half the story.

            As Melisande’s time neared, Bane felt sorry for her, for she seemed to always be uncomfortable, whether lying down, sitting, or pacing her cell for exercise and sanity. She slept more and more during the day, her nights often restless. Bane knew these troubles she suffered were not just physical but emotional as well. The closer the birth drew, the more she talked about Henri Ducard, about how she wished he knew of his offspring, and about how frightened she was to raise a child alone, especially since she had no prior experience. She stopped short of wondering aloud if Ducard would ever see the child, and Bane appreciated her sensitivity to his feelings about his futile escape attempt and any future efforts.

            “I wish her baby would hurry up and come,” Bane said one afternoon in Doctor Assad’s cell.

            “She should deliver any day now,” Assad said. “That is, if Melisande is correct about the time of conception.”

            The brief mental image of Melisande and Henri Ducard that Assad’s words conjured caused Bane to blush, clear his throat, and change the subject. “I hope she has a boy.”

            From his bed Assad grunted, pale eyes upon his book.

            When the doctor was not forthcoming with his own opinion of the sex of Melisande’s baby, Bane found Assad’s gaze still on the book yet misted, as if he were seeing something else.

            Bane lowered his voice, glanced to make sure the cells on either side were empty. “What if she has a girl? She told me she’s afraid it will be. I’ve tried to talk to her about it, in case it is a girl, I mean, but she won’t discuss it. Superstitious, I guess.”

            Assad’s eyes snapped across the cell to where Bane sat cross-legged on a mat, then he too checked to ensure they were alone. “We must pray to whatever God there may be that she has a boy.” He sat up to face Bane, glanced toward the stepwell. “If she has a girl, no one must know; we must all be convincing that it is a boy. We must think of it ourselves as a boy to safeguard against betraying it.”

            “How?”

            “I have talked with her about it, just a bit. As you say, she prefers not to face the possibility of raising a girl in this place. But I have told her that she must consider it, she must be prepared in case.”

            Bane frowned, disappointed that she had confided in the doctor instead of him, even if it was only briefly.

            “What will we do?”

            “The child would have to have a male name. And Melisande would need to guard against her being seen without clothing. Things like keeping her hair shorn would help disguise her.”

            Bane almost inquired as to the tactics to be employed once the girl was older, when her voice and her body would strive to betray her sex, but that would mean accepting that they would all still be imprisoned years from now. He would not speak of it, he would not think of it, not now, not later.

            One of the prisoners who lived in an adjoining cell returned, so their conversation reverted to safer subjects. But later, when Bane went back to his own cell and saw Melisande tossing restlessly upon her charpoy, he considered bringing up the subject of the baby with her. Yet once inside his cell, he realized she was in no mood to carry on a conversation. Her face was flushed, beads of sweat on her forehead. Before he could speak, she clenched her jaw, her eyes widening, staring upward, her fingers clutching the sides of her charpoy.

            Bane’s stomach dropped into his shoes. “What’s the matter?”

            She did not respond, did not seem to hear him. He rushed to the bars that separated them, reached through to touch her arm, her flesh warm beneath her sleeve.

            “Melisande?”

            Her jaw unclenched, her features, her whole body slowly relaxed, and a long breath escaped her before she looked at him. A tentative smile trembled on her lips.

            “I think it’s started,” she said. “The baby is coming.”


	41. Chapter 41

            Nothing in the pit had prepared Bane for this. He had heard the screams of prisoners when in pain from injuries or from torture, things common enough to eventually dull him to the sounds, and of course those outcries had all been uttered by men. But this…listening to Melisande’s cries as she endeavored to bring her child into the world…this tore at Bane’s nerves like nothing else.

            “Why doesn’t it come?” he asked Assad in frustrated desperation.

            The doctor glanced up from his position between Melisande’s drawn up legs. “Babies come in their own time, Bane. It is normal, and I certainly do not see anything to make me believe this one is anything but healthy and normal.” He offered Melisande a quick smile of comfort.

            Melisande, however, was too distracted by pain to acknowledge the doctor’s words. The contraction passed, and her weight relaxed back against Bane where he crouched on her charpoy, supporting her. With an unsteady hand, he again wiped her face with a wet cloth. Though the prison was dank as usual, sweat completely soaked her. Her hair, braided and pinned up, threatened to fall, single wisps sticking out in every direction.

            Of course everyone in the prison knew by now what was happening here. Bane heard the shuffle of feet and the whispered, rumbling voices beyond the curtain of blankets. The barriers were not simply for the sake of Melisande’s privacy, but for the child, for if it were indeed a girl, they did not want prying eyes to see her before she could be covered. For this purpose the blanket Melisande had crocheted lay on a nearby stool, folded and ready to receive—pale blue with pink and white flowers in the pattern. Bane wanted to shout at the milling prisoners and tell them to get the hell away, not because he feared that they could somehow see through or around the blankets but because he so desperately needed an outlet to expel his anxiety over the whole affair.

            Another contraction gripped Melisande, and her fingernails dug into Bane’s hand, but he did not try to free himself from her grip. His own pain somehow made it easier to endure her ensuing outcry, especially when it rose in pitch, hurting his ears. He was perspiring almost as much as she was, their odors mingling strongly in his nostrils, but just like the discomfort from her nails, he found that he did not mind. In fact, regardless of everything unpleasant so far, he would not have wanted to be anywhere else. When he had fetched the doctor to her cell earlier, he had been pleased that she invited him in as well. She had reached for him with trembling fingers, her eyes bright and wide with fear. He had smiled in the hopes of giving her strength, and she had smiled back in silent appreciation.

            The contraction faded away, but they were coming quicker now. As she settled against him once more, he rested his cheek against her head as his mother used to do to soothe him over one trouble or another.

            “Oh!” Melisande breathed. “I’ve hurt your hand.”

            “It’s all right.”

            She closed both of her hands around his wounded one and briefly kissed it in apology, thanking him for being there. Regrettably, when the next contraction came, she clutched the edge of her charpoy instead. The soft sensation of her lips against his flesh nearly made Bane forget his duties.

            “Here it comes,” Assad said calmly. “Just a bit more.”

            Melisande’s wrenching cry sent the lurkers scattering down the corridor; Gola had fled his cell long ago. Bane watched Assad’s face, could judge by the subtle changes there how things were progressing. A part of Bane—the curious student—wished he could see what the doctor was seeing, yet a larger part of him was glad to be spared.

            Suddenly the doctor’s expression brightened, and Melisande gave a long groan.

            “There we are,” Assad breathed.

            Bane craned his neck in an effort to see as Melisande relaxed heavily against him, her eyes closing, nearly pushing him back. The doctor met his gaze, his smile of triumph tempered by a slight shake of his head. The baby began to cry, a strong, shattering squall, an incongruous new sound bouncing against the stone. Carefully Bane eased himself away from Melisande to assist the doctor. With the umbilical cord severed, Assad nodded to the blanket. Quickly Bane unfolded it and received the child, a diminutive, slimy mass of red and purple, eyes pinched shut with its furious cries. Then he saw, and his heart sank.

            A girl.

            Bane held Assad’s meaningful glance, too stunned to move. He had mentally prepared himself to see a girl child, but now faced with the reality and all of the things that reality would mean, he stood in mute disbelief.

            “Bane,” Melisande softly called, her arms outstretched, exhausted but eager.

            “Let me clean h—h—him up first.”

            “No, please…it doesn’t matter.” Her fingers wriggled insistently, and Assad nodded to him.

            With a glance toward the blanket hanging across the front of her cell, he brought the baby to her. Tears filled her eyes as she beheld her daughter’s scrunched face, taking her in her arms and kissing her. The baby’s cries instantly lessened, and her eyes finally opened as she fussed against the swaddling. Briefly Melisande pulled back the blanket enough to determine the newborn’s gender. What she discovered did not lessen her joy. She drew one of the pink hands to her lips to kiss.

            “Oh,” she said, “how I wish Henri could see…” Tears mixed with her perspiration, her cheeks shining in the low light. Then she looked between Bane and Assad with a trembling smile. “Thank you…thank you both. What would we do without you?”

            Bane returned her smile and knelt beside her, fascinated by the newborn and her misted blue eyes. His fingers twitched to hold her again. “Let me clean h—him up for you. I’ll bring him right back.”

            Reluctantly she surrendered the baby.

            Bane took the child to a small table at the rear of the cell where another blanket lay folded as padding. Gently he laid her there then retrieved a kettle of water kept warm on the brazier. He tested its temperature with his hand before pouring it into a basin. With a damp rag—the softest he could find—he began to clean the child, and as he did so she paused for a brief moment in her squirming, as if shocked by the foreign touch of the cloth. Bane’s breath caught when she seemed to focus on him for the first time, those tiny eyes in a tiny, smooth-as-butter face, a small shock of dark hair plastered to her soft skull. He paused, concerned that perhaps the water was too warm. The mottled little arms waved, as if urging him on in his duties, and he could not help but smile, a broad smile that challenged facial muscles unaccustomed to such an expression. He realized how relieved he was that this was over, these long months, and impulsively he bestowed a quick kiss on the baby’s pert nose. She wriggled, opened her toothless mouth, an odd sight that made him laugh. The sound startled both of them, and she began to fuss again, so he quickly finished his task, swaddled her, and returned her to Melisande.

            Doctor Assad had used the extra blankets and pillow that he had brought with him to the cell and piled them behind Melisande so she could partially sit up. She cradled the baby in her arms, her tired face aglow. The exhaustion was there in her eyes but the rest of her being seemed ignited with a strange energy that Bane could almost feel. Never had he seen another person so completely happy. Such emotion was nonexistent—almost incomprehensible—in this place.

            “Try to nurse him now,” Assad quietly said, a smile of his own taking years from his countenance. “It will help you pass the afterbirth.”

            For the delivery Melisande had donned a loose-fitting prison shirt whose collar was closed with lacings. Trying to untie them, her shaking hand gave her difficulty. Bane was about to help her, but the doctor’s fingers were there first.

            “Bane,” Assad said, “why don’t you fetch one of the diapers? Once the child has nursed, you can put it on…him.”

            Bane almost did not hear the directive, his attention glued to Melisande’s exposed breast as she offered the erect nipple it to the infant.

            “Bane,” Assad said in a deeper, more forceful voice that tore his attention away from mother and child. The doctor’s gaze flicked toward the changing table.

            “Y—yes, sir,” he said, reverting to formality as he always did when they were with a patient. Yet, he reflected as he crossed the cell, he did not feel like a simple physician’s assistant in this matter, and Melisande was certainly not the usual patient. When he looked back to her and the child, he felt more like a family member who had just witnessed this miracle. Holding that baby, her eyes rising to meet his, had filled him with an overpowering feeling of love and responsibility, as if she were his sister…or his own child.

            After some initial difficulty, the baby successfully nursed for a brief time. Then, once the afterbirth was expelled, Assad washed Melisande, and Bane changed the sheet. With the last resupply Assad had acquired extra bedding as well as cotton cloth for diapers, among other items for the baby, including a pacifier, which the child now had in her mouth. With the ugliness and pain behind them, the three sat in contented silence, all eyes on the newborn asleep in her mother’s arms.

            Bane heard Gola’s familiar limping gait as he passed, saying, “Is it dead? I hear nothing.”

            “Be quiet,” Bane shot in a low, sharp voice. “He’s asleep.”

            “Oh, asleep, is it? Well, that won’t last,” Gola grumbled as he shuffled into his cell. “All babies do is cry and stink. You’ll see. Stupid boy. You will rue the day that thing was born, as I already do. Maybe I should find a nice quiet cell as far from here as I can.”

            “Maybe you should,” Bane growled.

            Assad’s hand on his arm and a rebuking look returned him to silence.

            Realizing he may have upset Melisande, Bane mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

            She seemed unconcerned, a gentle smile still on her face; it had not left her since the birth. Her finger trailed along the baby’s cheek, her face all that could be seen amongst the layers of blankets that protected mother and child from the prison chill as night set in full force. Bane had stoked the brazier, adding plenty of charcoal to it. The doctor had acquired more of that as well, though Bane knew if the other prisoners were aware of such privilege things could go badly for Assad.

            “What have you decided to call him?” Assad asked.

            Melisande’s smile faded slightly. “For now…Henri.” She lifted her eyes to them and started to whisper more, but Assad urgently pressed a hushing finger to her lips.

            “No, my dear. Nothing more. You must keep that to yourself. It is best if Bane and I know only Henri, yes?”

            A disappointed frown marred her joy only for a moment, then her attention returned to the baby, and her smile bloomed once more. She kissed the child and held her even closer.

            “Now you must rest,” the doctor said, standing. “We will leave the blankets up to give you some privacy. I will check you again before I retire for the night. If you need me before then, send Bane.”

            When Bane reluctantly stood, she reached for his hand. “Please don’t go.”

            He glanced at Assad near the door. “But you must rest, like the doctor said.”

            “I will. I just…I just don’t want to be alone right now. Can’t you stay?”

            Bane looked for Assad’s permission. The man hesitated, but when Melisande’s gaze reached for him, he gave in with a nod.

            Fetching a chair, Bane sat next to the charpoy, and Melisande took his hand once again.

            “Thank you,” she murmured, her eyelids suddenly heavy.

            “Why don’t you give the baby to me? I’ll hold him while you sleep.”

            “You will stay right here?”

            “Of course.”

            Melisande carefully pulled the blankets back so Bane could take the baby in her swaddling. She made a tiny squeak of protest and squirmed until Bane settled her against his chest, then she drifted off again. He grinned, pleased to be accepted so readily after her mother.

            Melisande reached up to touch her one last time before her hand lost all strength and fell to rest upon Bane’s thigh. Then she dozed off with a small smile still upon her lips.


	42. Chapter 42

            The next day dozens of prisoners came to see the baby, a curiosity that would not last long. To many the newborn was a double-edged sword, for while innocence brought smiles to faces unused to such emotions, it also reminded the men of what they were not and—to those who were fathers—of what they had lost forever. Melisande mainly kept to her charpoy, but she allowed Bane—who had remained with her since the birth—to remove the blanket from the front of the cell and carry the child forward for those who requested to see her. Bane was careful to remain out of reach, though he figured such concerns were no doubt ridiculous, for who could possibly have any reason to want to harm the child? Nonetheless, Melisande appreciated his extra caution.

            “Maybe now they won’t be so vile to me,” she said, “or to my baby as…he grows up.”

            Bane hid his skepticism that anything or anyone would alter how the inmates viewed Melisande. His own upbringing had proven that. The insults and crude remarks to his mother had never faded. To counter his cynicism and say something to hearten Melisande, he almost relapsed into his old practice of promising escape, those dangerous words of hope now dancing on the tip of his tongue, but he choked them back.

            The doctor had stopped by first thing in the morning to check on Melisande, and Bane could tell by his dark, warning look that he was not pleased to see Bane still in her cell. But whenever he had started to leave, she had asked him to stay, and he had no desire to do otherwise. He had made breakfast for both of them, then when Melisande nursed the child, Bane pretended to be distracted by other duties—tending the brazier, cleaning up after their meal—but occasionally he allowed his attention to drift back to her and the pleasing picture she and the baby provided, that contented smile on Melisande’s face as the baby made quiet suckling noises, stubby fingers pressed against her mother’s soft, alluring flesh.

            The baby’s occasional crying drove Gola and Abrams from their cells for most of the day, and by the afternoon—with visitors to see the newborn tapering off—Bane and Melisande had time alone.

            “There—it fits perfectly!” Bane grinned as he attempted to straighten the crocheted hat on the puzzled baby’s head, but of course there was no straightening something that was lopsided in its very creation. “Well…almost perfectly.”

            Melisande tried to maintain a straight face as she admired Bane’s latest effort to clothe the child. There had been booties before this, but they were woefully too large. The hat had this same defect, the crooked front edge overlapping the baby’s forehead, but Bane was pleased that Melisande did not remove it.

            “Thank you, Bane. It’s…it’s lovely.”

            The baby’s eyes lifted to her mother’s as if to offer a differing opinion, and both Bane and Melisande laughed. At this the child squirmed with delight, the empty pink gums bared, the blue eyes somehow bright in the filtered light from the shaft, one flailing arm stretching up as if to touch the cap.

            “What color are your husband’s eyes?” Bane asked on impulse.

            Melisande’s mirth tempered. “The same color as the baby’s, but…of course the color may change in time.” The child gripped her mother’s finger and dragged it to her mouth.

            The girl’s eyes, like her mother’s, were large and already beautiful to Bane. Their clarity and dancing quality seemed to reflect her very innocence to the world. They radiated warmth and happiness, ignorance and the pure joy that came with it. Had he once appeared that way in his own mother’s arms?

            “I don’t think I will ever get used to it,” Melisande’s quiet words drew him back.

            “To what?”

            She glanced over her shoulder toward the door. “To using Henri’s name for…for her. It doesn’t seem right, as if I’m ashamed of who she is.”

            “You know that’s not it at all.”

            She frowned and kissed her daughter.

            “Have you thought of a girl’s name?” His own gaze snapped to the corridor, half expecting the doctor to appear and rebuke him for his indiscretion.

            “Yes, of course.”

            He whispered, “What is it?”

            Melisande stared with surprise, but when he grinned conspiratorially and arched one eyebrow at her, she smiled and looked away, blushing. Her attention flicked outward, as if making sure they were still alone.

            “I shouldn’t tell you.”

            “I won’t give it away.” He edged his chair closer to her charpoy, unwilling to give up now that they had started this game.

            “Bane…”

            “Come on. Don’t you trust me?”

            “Of course I trust you. But like the doctor said—”

            “What does he know? He’s not _us_.” He leaned even closer as she lowered her eyes in a fruitless attempt to avoid him.

            Sobriety smoothed the smile from the corners of her lips and hushed her voice even more, “Why do you care so much about us, Bane? No one else here does.”

            Her question took him aback, straightened him in his chair. No doubt a simple tactic meant to derail his inquiry; nonetheless, he could not ignore her remark, for he feared that she might truly—somewhere in her heart—think him capable of betraying her…betraying _them_. Always the plural now…

            “Why wouldn’t I care? You’re my friend. And you’re innocent, both of you; you don’t deserve to be here…just like me, just like my mother. That’s why the others don’t care, and I do. We’re different from them.” The memory of the Vulture’s vacant, dead eyes reminded him that he was not as innocent as he had once been, but he shoved the accusatory image aside. “I would never hurt you, Melisande…never, you or…” He touched the baby’s swaddling, and she wriggled and hiccupped.

            “Talia,” Melisande whispered.

            Surprise lifted Bane’s eyebrows, and he smiled. “Talia… That’s beautiful.” His finger tickled the baby’s ear, and she squirmed again, drawing her hands together as if to clap. Bane settled back in his chair once again, his smile drifted away, and he crossed his arms against his chest, suddenly chilled, yet he did not move to stoke the brazier. “Remember the first time we snuck into the shaft?”

            “Yes, of course; I’ll never forget it.”

            He nodded more to himself than to her. “That night you started to ask me a favor.”

            “Bane—”

            “I should have answered you. I was a coward for running away.”

            “Bane, stop…” She reached for his arm. “I told you, I never should have put you in that position.”

            “But who else is there? I mean, if something were to happen. And now that she’s here…” His focus went to the baby who lay very still, who seemed to be listening to him. “She’s so helpless. Of course I would take care of her. I want you to know that.”

            Melisande squeezed his arm. “You don’t have to say this.”

            “I’m not afraid. I was before but now…now I’m not.” He smiled at Talia and reached for her tiny hand, caressed its warm velvet softness. “I look at her—how small she is—and I feel very strong indeed.”

            Footsteps along the cell row interrupted him, and he turned as Hans came up to the door. He had stopped by earlier to see Talia, but this time his sober expression made it clear that this was not another social call.

            “Bane, I need to talk to you.”

            “About what?”

            Hans pinned a pointed look on him and crooked a finger.

            With a frown, Bane assured Melisande that he would return directly, then he used the key Assad had begrudgingly loaned him to let himself out. Then he tossed it back through the bars to Melisande for safekeeping.

            Bane expected Hans to simply draw him aside to say whatever it was he needed to say, but instead the German lumbered into the shaft and led the way downward to his cell. Only there, with no one in the adjoining cells, did he turn to Bane and speak.

            “Do you not remember what I told you when Melisande first arrived here?”

            Still puzzled by the man’s brusque mood, Bane stammered, “What?”

            Hans hesitated, his lips pressed together in consternation. For a moment his stare went beyond Bane into the shaft, as if he did not see him. Then he sighed, and some of the anger seemed to dissipate. He paced to the back of his cell then turned, studied Bane, before gesturing for him to sit on his charpoy. When Bane obeyed, Hans scraped a hand across the stubble on his chiseled jaw and regarded him for another long moment.

            “What?” Irritation had crept into Bane. What was so damn important that he had to be taken away from Melisande and the baby?

            Hans folded his arms across his muscular chest. “When Melisande arrived here, I warned you not to act as if you have privileges to her.”

            “Privileges?” His fists clenched. “What are you insinuating?”

            “Calm down, boy, and listen to me,” Hans scowled. “I’m not accusing you of having sex with her, if that’s what you think I mean. I’m simply talking about the time you spend with her.”

            “We live next to each other. It’s not like I can avoid her.”

            “ _Ja_ , you live next to her, not _with_ her. Yet there you are since yesterday, in her cell with her. You slept there last night, I understand.”

            “Yes. She asked me to.”

            “You should have said no.”

            “She didn’t want to be alone; she just had a baby.”

            “ _Ja_?” Hans raised an eyebrow mockingly. “I didn’t notice.”

            Bane got up to leave, but Hans grabbed a hold of his arm.

            “Let go of me.”

            “You will listen to me, boy. For your own good.” Hans’s eyes had darkened like a storm. “I told you months ago the others will not take kindly to you hovering over that girl. They have tolerated it so far, but now…this last thing… You are putting yourself above all of them by sharing her cell. I understand why, but the why doesn’t matter to them. You must not go back in there.”

            “She needs me.”

            “You do enough for her outside of her cell; you don’t need to do more inside.”

            “I didn’t plan on staying there. It was just for last night and today. That’s all. Because she asked me.”

            Hans regarded him with veiled skepticism and freed his arm. “Make sure that is indeed all.”

            “I don’t see how this is any of your business anyway.”

            “It’s my business because I don’t want to be the one hoisting your corpse up that shaft like I did with your mother.”

            Though Bane did not lose his scowl, the invocation of his mother took some of the fire from his veins. Sullenly he lowered his gaze, nodded.

            The red anger faded from Hans’s features, and he stepped back. “Now, you should stay a while, play some backgammon perhaps.”

            “No, I should get back—”

            “If you go back now, Melisande will take one look at that little boy pout on those fat lips of yours and know that I just chewed you out.” A small grin crept over him. “You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

            Now Bane realized why Hans had brought him all the way here instead of berating him in a common area where others could see and hear. While he appreciated the man’s consideration, he would not capitulate so easily.

            “Maybe I’ll come back later to play.”

            With that, he left. As he climbed the steps, he could hear Talia crying. His pace quickened, his thoughts racing back over what Hans had said. He chafed at the man’s words, but he also knew there was sense in them. If he kept himself out of Melisande’s cell, maybe at least Talia could come out. When her mother needed to rest, he could volunteer to take the baby into his own cell or maybe Hans’s or the doctor’s cell…or maybe even into the shaft. He smiled at the thought of Talia looking up not to see stone but instead sky. And, with no one to hear, he would tell her how she would one day see that sky from a much closer perspective.


	43. Chapter 43

            When Bane reached Melisande’s cell, Talia was still crying. Her mother gently rocked her in her arms and tried to quiet her by walking around the cell. The baby’s purple-faced cries kept Melisande’s attention away from Bane after she had let him in.

            “I changed his diaper,” she said. “I thought that might be what was making him cry.”

            “Why don’t you let me take him for a minute?”

            Hesitating, Melisande frowned as if she felt herself a failure.

            “It’s worth a try,” he suggested with a smile. “You shouldn’t be up and about too much yet anyway. You heard what the doctor said this morning. Let me walk him.”

            Finally, as the baby’s ear-splitting cries worsened, she surrendered Talia to him. Troubled, she did not step back, one hand still on the swaddling.

            In a teasing voice, hoping to distract her, Bane said, “All babies cry. You heard Gola.” His grin at last broke through her anxiety, and she smiled appreciatively back. He continued to tease her, “You should lie down or else I’ll tell the doctor you’ve been running laps, then you’ll be in deep trouble.”

            At last she capitulated, but her attention remained on Talia as he gently bounced her and walked back and forth. He wished he could remember some of the songs his mother used to sing to him when he was younger, but the lyrics did not come, only fragments of melodies. So he patched together what he could recall and hummed over top of the cacophony. As the song penetrated the din, Talia’s eyes—which until now had been squeezed shut—cracked open, and for a moment she paused in her crying fit. He grinned at her, but the interruption of his singing renewed her outrage, so he quickly continued, putting his face close to hers, their lips almost touching.

            Perhaps it was the warmth of his breath against her skin that broke her concentration or perhaps it was the song, but she began to settle. He exaggerated rocking her, swinging his arms high to the right then the left. Talia’s eyes widened, and he laughed.

            “Oh, Bane, be careful,” Melisande cautioned.

            “Don’t worry. I won’t drop him.”

            He continued to swoop Talia back and forth, and she made strange little sounds that he interpreted as laughter, which in turn increased his own mirth. The angry color faded from her cheeks, and her limbs began to wiggle. With a final twirl, he landed next to Melisande, his own face flushed with the effort. By then even Melisande was laughing.

            “There,” Bane said in triumph. “That seems to have done the trick.” He knew he should relinquish Talia to her mother, but he was not ready to let her go, afraid this might be the last time he would get to hold her.

            “Thank you,” Melisande said. “You’re so good with him.”

            He sat a few minutes longer, playing with the baby and talking to her, but at last he handed her back to her mother and stood.

            “Well, I’m going to the doctor’s cell to study. And I’d better give your key back to him now.”

            “It was good of him to let us borrow it.”

            “Yes, and that’s why we had better not keep it too long. You know how grumpy he can get.” He winked as Melisande handed over the key.

            “When you come back, could you bring me his latest newspaper? I’ve already read it, I know, but…” Her lips twisted with wistfulness. “It is easy down here to forget that there is another world up above, isn’t it? Sometimes I completely lose track of the days.” She smiled at Talia. “But now I have something that will remind me of the passage of time. He will be grown before I know it.”

            Bane did not want to contemplate Talia growing up, not here at least, for age would only present more and more challenges to concealing her gender.

            “I’ll be back before supper,” he said.

            “Will you eat with us?”

            He paused once outside the cell and forced his tone to be light. “It’s probably best if I eat in my own cell. But I can cook for both of us. Like I said, you should stay off your feet as much as you can for now.”

            Some of the happiness faded from her face, and he felt criminal, as if he had somehow deceived her. But surely she understood why he could not return to her cell.

            “Very well,” she said. “But tomorrow you will let me cook for you instead. You have already done far too much for us.”

#

            In the days that followed, Melisande made no comment about Bane keeping to his own cell, but he sensed that she was as disappointed as he in their separation. A silly emotion, he told himself; after all, only bars separated them. They could still carry on life as they had before Talia’s arrival. Melisande had pushed her charpoy up against the bars so Talia could not slip off, and she slept with the baby lying on that side, closest to Bane, so he could reach through the bars to touch her. Sometimes in the dim light from their braziers he could see Talia’s eyes upon him, almost curious, as if she wondered why he no longer cuddled her. He still hummed to her and sometimes sang when he could recall the words, and on those occasions Talia always lay quietly watching.

            On one such night, when he had just finished a song and Talia had drifted off, an inexplicable wave of loneliness swept over him with a strength he had not experienced since his mother’s death. For a long moment he lay staring at Talia, her fingers wrapped around his index finger.

            “Bane,” Melisande murmured as if from afar.

            He snapped out of his reverie and withdrew his hand with care so as not to awaken the child.

            “Are you all right?” Melisande asked.

            “Yes. I’m fine.” He pulled his blankets up to his chin to fight off the night’s cold.

            When she spoke again, it was obvious she did not believe him. “Perhaps tomorrow you could take Henri for me…just for a little while, I mean. He misses you. And I think it will be best if he is accustomed to more than just myself. If escape does come, I don’t want him to be afraid of other people; it will be easier for him to assimilate that way.”

            He smiled at her effort to chase away his loneliness. “Of course I’ll take him…for as long as you like.” He wondered if her talk of assimilation had more to do with the awful possibility that she might not survive the pit than with the remote chance of escape. “He can come with me to visit Doctor Assad.”

            “Oh…well, no, I meant for you just to take him into your cell.”

            “We would just be down the corridor. I’m sure the doctor won’t mind if he’s there. I think it will be good for him to get out.”

            Melisande hesitated.

            “He’ll be fine; I promise. I’ll be in Doctor Assad’s cell in seconds. No worries.”

            “Well…”

            “Please, Melisande.”

            “Well…I suppose…if you promise you will go only to the doctor’s cell.”

            He smiled to himself. “Of course.”

#

            From that day on Bane watched Talia every afternoon while Melisande napped. As promised he took the baby nowhere but to his or Doctor Assad’s cell. There he played with her and read to her. Assad was often with them, and he, too, enjoyed time spent with the child. In fact, Bane had never seen the man smile and laugh as he did when around Talia. Yet, regardless of the physician’s fondness for the baby, Bane did not share the secret of her name, not only for Talia’s protection but because he liked the idea that only he and Melisande knew the truth.

            By the time Talia was two months old, Bane felt he had gained Melisande’s trust enough to propose something more for the child’s daily routine.

            “The sun is shining today,” he said upon his return from medical rounds. “I was thinking…what if I take Henri to the stepwell today? I think it’s time he sees the sun, don’t you?”

            Melisande was brushing her hair in front of a small mirror that hung at the back of her cell. When she heard Bane’s suggestion, she froze in her movements, staring at her reflection. A brief moment later she continued with her task, one hand smoothing her hair after each stroke, the dark strands catching the sunlight from the shaft that reflected off the stones.

            “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Bane.”

            “Why not?”

            She glanced at him with mild reproach. “I think you know why.”

            “No one will harm him. Why would they? I think it would do them all good to see him more.”

            Melisande stifled a cynical laugh. “It will take far more than a baby to bring about good in men such as these.”

            Her skepticism, while injuring his pride, did not surprise him.

            Gola spoke up from his cell, “Maybe you should listen to the boy now and then, bitch. Once in a while the little bastard says something worth listening to.”

            Instant anger darkened Melisande’s face, and she wheeled toward the blanket behind which Gola lounged. “This coming from a man who once attacked me. Surely Bane isn’t talking about _you_ benefitting from seeing my child. What could possibly redeem you?”

            “I can think of one thing.” He chuckled crudely.

            “Melisande.” Bane’s voice turned her back to him, but her eyes drifted to Talia asleep on her charpoy. “I won’t take him there for long. Just for a little bit while the sun is at its zenith. Then I’ll bring him straight back. I promise.”

            She set aside her brush and came to sit next to Talia.

            “When I was a baby,” Bane continued, “Doctor Assad took me into the shaft most every day. And no one hurt me.”

            Melisande’s troubled gaze went first to the corridor then toward Abrams’s cell, but Abrams was not there. She leaned close to the bars, whispered to him where he sat on his charpoy, “But what if someone were to discover...”

            “I won’t let anybody hold him. I’ll sit just inside the stepwell from here; that way, if there is any trouble, I can bring him right back.” He smiled in an attempt to share his confidence.

            She frowned. “I don’t know, Bane…”

            “It will be good for him. You said yourself that you want him to be used to other people.”

            “Yes, but not…all people.”

            “Don’t worry. I promise it’ll be all right. Please.” He offered his best pitiable expression, one he had used upon his mother many times to get his way.

            “Bane…” She sighed in exasperation, unable to deny a small smile at his efforts. “Let me think about it.”


	44. Chapter 44

            For the next week, each day around noon, Bane repeated his request, tempting Melisande with words about the sun, something she—more than anyone in the pit—desired to see herself after so many months in her cell. It was that deprivation that no doubt worked on her resolve, for she did not want her child to suffer the way she was suffering.

            “For ten minutes,” she finally said when he had asked yet again. “No more. Understand?”

            He grinned. “Of course.”

            “Promise me.”

            “Ten minutes.”

            “You won’t let him out of your arms.”

            “No.”

            Bane rushed to retrieve the key to Melisande’s cell from Doctor Assad, though he had not yet told the doctor of his plans for Talia, too afraid the man would rail against it because of Talia’s gender. Fortunately the doctor was so used to the daily ritual of the baby coming to his cell that he would never think to ask if Bane had other ideas when he came for the key.

            When he returned to Melisande’s cell and stepped inside, she was holding Talia, a conflicted expression on her face. For a moment Bane feared she would not surrender the child.

            “It will be all right,” he assured.

            “How can you be sure?”

            “It isn’t fair to keep him in the dark always, is it? Not when he can see the sun, even if it’s only for a couple of minutes.”

            “Oh, Bane…” Her lips trembled, and tears hovered in her eyes.

            He touched her arm and offered a confident smile. “I won’t let anything happen. I promise. We’ll be just a few steps away. You will be able to see us.”

            Both nearly jumped when Abrams spoke from outside of Melisande’s cell, “I’ll go with the kid.”

            Bane hid his shock with an appreciative smile. Melisande stood speechless.

            “He’s right, you know,” Abrams said. “You can’t keep that baby in the dark forever. Even if you don’t let Bane take him now, once he’s grown you won’t be able to keep him locked up anymore than Bane’s mother could keep him locked up.”

            His words did not ease Melisande’s emotional struggle. She drew Talia even closer. Up until then the baby had been quiet, half asleep in her mother’s arms, but with Abrams’s arrival and the sound of his strong voice, she began to stir, her large eyes fully open now.

            Bane held out his hands toward Talia while smiling at her mother. “See? Now we have a bodyguard.”

            Finally, with a quiet, frustrated sigh, Melisande pressed Talia to her cheek then kissed her. The baby happily squirmed and smiled, causing Bane to laugh as usual. He reached to take her, fearful that if he waited for Melisande to hand Talia to him she might yet balk. Even then he almost had to pry the baby away.

            “Ten minutes,” Melisande said, wiping self-consciously at her eyes. The look she gave Abrams was not one of total confidence.

            “Don’t worry,” Abrams said, no doubt knowing she was even then trying to think of a reason not to trust him. But he had done nothing in the months since her arrival to provide her with any such basis.

            As if her trepidation had robbed her of the strength for a verbal response, she simply nodded then kissed Talia one more time, her hand caressing the child’s cheek.

            Bane offered a final smile of reassurance before turning away. Melisande waited for Abrams to step back before she unlocked the door, then she opened it just wide enough for Bane to slip out before quickly locking it again behind him.

            When Bane emerged into the shaft with Talia, no one immediately took notice. There were two dozen prisoners spread throughout the stepwell. This was always the time when many came, for the shaft was at its brightest, though of course bright was a relative term this far below the surface. They lounged about, some singularly, some in pairs, some talking, but most silently enjoying the brief moment of illumination and half-imagined warmth. Bane settled just inside of the pillars at the top of the stepwell, in a direct line from Melisande’s cell. Abrams did not sit with him; instead he leaned against the nearest pillar as if aloof, but Bane knew he took in every man in the shaft. Bane slipped his knife from its sheath and tucked it into the folds of Talia’s blanket, though he truly believed no one would threaten them.

            “Here we are,” Bane murmured to Talia. “What do you think of that?”

            Her gaze remained upon him for a minute, watching the movement of his mouth as if trying to understand how words were formed. He grinned and nuzzled her nose. She wiggled in response, and one tiny hand reached up to grasp his lips in a gentle tweak, something she did often to him in recent days.

            “Look,” he said, shifting her more horizontally so she could see the sky. But she did not take her attention from him until he reared his head back to look up. “See there? Sunlight. Isn’t that something?”

            Finally her blue gaze drifted upward, her face bathed in weak sunlight which made her appear even more angelic. She blinked and dragged one forearm across her eyes, moved her head from side to side, and for a moment he worried that the unfamiliar brightness might make her uncomfortable. But she blinked once again, smiled, appeared to study the strange sight of the glowing shaft.

            “Someday,” Bane said, “you will be up there. Wait and see.”

            Abrams shifted his weight, made a low growling sound. Bane glanced his way, but the man avoided his gaze.

            It did not take long before a couple of inmates made their way up the steps. They came with open expressions, two Indian men Bane knew to be fathers.

            “Look who is out of his cage,” one said. “How did you manage it, boy?”

            Bane smiled proudly and shrugged. Though he believed these men presented no danger, his hold on Talia was secure, the tightness of his grip camouflaged by her blanket.

            The two men smiled down at the child whose eyes reached curiously to them. When one crouched next to him, Bane immediately shifted away.

            “No need to worry, boy. We mean no harm.”

            “Melisande doesn’t want anyone holding him but me.”

            The prisoner nodded. “Sound advice.”

            No one else approached them, and soon—to Bane’s relief—the two men drifted off. He sat there longer, talking to Talia and promising to bring her back to the shaft not only to see the sun again but to see the stars as well.

            “‘For my part,’” he recited in a mock serious voice, “‘I know nothing with any certainty but the sight of the stars makes me dream.’” He grinned at Talia. “That’s what Vincent van Gogh once said. He was a famous painter.”

            “No sense having dreams down here,” Abrams muttered, nearly startling Bane who had forgotten the man’s presence. When Bane looked over at him, Abrams straightened. “Time’s up, boy.” He jerked his chin toward their cells. “His mother’s waiting. Wouldn’t want to upset her, would you? Not if you plan on bringing that baby back here again.”

            Bane got to his feet, feeling victorious. “Thanks for coming with us.”

            “You owe me one, boy.”

            Thinking back on Abrams’s warning about the Vulture, Bane knew he owed the man for much more than just today.

            As Bane stepped past the pillars, a dark shape caught the corner of his eye, and he instinctively took a hold of the knife. A man, several feet to his right, shrank back into the shadow of a pillar, a small prisoner, hunched over, clad in rags. Bane recognized him by his smell before his eyes could verify the inmate’s identity: Crazy Saul. (Any prisoner whose mental state had deteriorated from long incarceration had the moniker “Crazy” before his name when spoken of or spoken to by other prisoners.) Saul—perhaps close to seventy years old by Bane’s estimation—had ginger colored hair, wild, unkempt, long, and—like the rest of him—dirty. His scraggily beard was equally disheveled. Sapphire eyes stared from sockets sunken deep in his gaunt face.

            It was so unusual for Saul to be near the stepwell during the day that Bane stopped to stare. If the man ever ventured into the shaft, it was at night. Bane had never been sure why Saul avoided the daylight. The doctor had surmised that it bothered the man’s eyes, but Bane believed that Saul’s rampant paranoia had more to do with it. He seemed to fear most prisoners and talked only to himself.

            Crazy Saul’s moist eyes were on Talia, his mouth slightly open as if in wonder. But when he saw Bane’s attention upon him, he scurried back to the darkness of the deeper corridor.

            “Ain’t seen him in a while,” Abrams muttered, also having stopped.

            “Bane,” Melisande said, drawing him over.

            Dismissing his curiosity about Crazy Saul, Bane smiled at her. “What did I tell you? No one bothered us at all.”

            “Thank you, Abrams,” she called to the man as he returned to his own cell, giving her simply a dismissive wave.

            “You should have seen Henri looking up the shaft,” Bane said as Melisande unlocked her door. “If I don’t make the climb, maybe one day he will. I think he’s already planning it.”

            Melisande could not help but smile at his folly as she took Talia back into her arms.

            “Wait,” Bane said and withdrew his knife from the blanket. Melisande looked surprised by its appearance but appreciative as well. “Thank you for letting me take him.”

            She nodded, hesitated with one hand on the door. “Would you like to come in for a bit?”

            “Oh…well, I would like to, but…well…I shouldn’t. But thank you.”

            She frowned and nodded again, slowly closed him out and handed him the key.

            “You best take this back to the doctor right away.”

            “I will.” He turned to leave.

            “Who was that man standing by the pillar? I noticed him right after you went into the shaft. I’ve never seen him before.”

            “Oh, that’s Crazy Saul. He’s been here forever. Don’t usually see him around the shaft, though. Well, not during the day anyway.” He smiled. “Don’t worry; he wouldn’t harm a flea.”


	45. Chapter 45

 

            Every day around noon Bane again coaxed Melisande into letting him take Talia into the shaft. Sometimes others came near to see the baby but more often they were left alone. Abrams accompanied them now and then, but not always, no doubt uncomfortable with a role that made him appear attached in any way to Talia or Melisande...or to Bane.

            Bane no longer remained in one spot. Their uneventful forays had eased some of Melisande’s concerns, and so Bane now wandered about the upper level of the stepwell, talking non-stop to Talia. He had never been happier, feeling independent and responsible, the only one here privileged enough to hold innocence in his arms. Rarely did Talia cry when with him and never when in the shaft. The light playing upon the walls and the men moving about held her fascination. When she was not taking in her surroundings, her gaze was fixed on his face, and he knew by the warmth in her eyes that she loved and trusted him perhaps as much as her own mother. After only three months he could not imagine ever being separated from her.

            Regularly he detected Crazy Saul’s presence when they were in the shaft. The man still would not come into the light, but now and then he peered around a pillar, furtive eyes on Talia. While his somewhat agitated state was not uncommon, Bane sensed that it stemmed from a desire to say something to him or Talia. Or perhaps he merely wanted to see the child up close. Maybe Crazy Saul had had children of his own, and Talia’s presence took him back to those times, times he perhaps desperately wanted to remember, when his mind and body had been healthy.

            “Would you like to see him?” Bane called to Saul one day, tired of the man shadowing them.

            Saul’s eyes widened, as if shocked that Bane had not only noticed him but had spoken to him. His bony hand clutched one corner of a pillar, fingernails dirty and ragged. For a brief moment he appeared to consider accepting the invitation, moving just slightly forward as if to come around the pillar. But then his eyes trailed up the shaft, squinted, and he backed away. Yet he did not leave.

            Bane waved a beckoning hand. “It’s all right. Come on then.”

            Saul looked at Talia, and one corner of his mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile that Bane had ever seen from him. Then his focus drifted downward to the other prisoners in the shaft, and the expression vanished. Bane turned to notice that some were watching them. When he turned back, Saul was gone.

            Bane frowned at Talia. “Maybe if he gets to see you up close, he’ll leave us alone.” He sat with his knees raised, the baby braced against his thighs, facing him. She watched him and absently blew spit bubbles, gurgling her strange language. “Besides that, it never hurts for you to make friends, does it? Better to have friends than enemies for when you get older…if we’re still here.”

            The next day he did not see Crazy Saul, but the man appeared the following day. This time when Bane invited him over, Saul gathered his courage and started to emerge from behind the pillar. Yet after only two steps, he halted, his expression fell, and he retreated.

            “Fine,” Bane said in frustration. “Have it your way.”

            This stirred the man, and once again he pried himself from behind his stony protection. Then he faltered, a wave of varied emotions washing over his face as he battled within himself. Deciding to meet him halfway at least, Bane started to stand, but this only sent Saul fleeing, never to be seen again for two days.

            When next he saw the deranged prisoner, Bane pretended not to notice him for a time. Instead he sat with his feet dangling over a ledge, dancing Talia on his thighs, her feet kicking with delight amidst her blanket where it had fallen away from her. He talked nonsense to her and tickled her round belly with his nose, making her laugh, a musical echo that bounced throughout the shaft. She clutched at the short tufts of hair that had begun to sprout on his head, grown simply to amuse her, for she loved to take a hold of all parts of him: hair, nose, lips, tongue, cheeks, chin, and clothing.

            From the corner of one eye Bane detected movement from Saul behind the nearest pillar, but he did not turn right away. He waited until the inmate crept from his shelter, then he moved only his head and did not make eye contact when he spoke to Saul.

            “He wants to see you, but we don’t have all day.”

            Saul hesitated. Talia’s gaze shifted to the man, and her smile disappeared. She did not, however, appear alarmed, only curious as she was about most everything presented to her. Her attention seemed to provide the final temptation for Crazy Saul, and he drifted closer, his smell preceding him. Bane told himself that he would only have to endure it for a short time. Surely it was worth suffering if it meant the man’s fascination would be satisfied and he would leave them alone in the future.

            Finally Saul hovered just behind him, mumbling something so softly that Bane could not detect the words, unsure even of the language. Bane’s nose twitched and wrinkled, and he was tempted to put his _shemagh_ —which was draped loosely about his neck and shoulders—up over his nostrils but refrained. Instinctive caution warned him to get an eye on Saul, not to be in such a vulnerable position with his back to him, but he knew if he made a move the man would scramble back to the lonely darkness. Besides, his knife was in its sheath, near at hand should he need it, and surely he would have no trouble fending off a frail old man.

            Talia wiggled, arms waving, a comical half smile flashing. Bane thought he heard a choked chuckle from Saul. He sensed the man crouching down, moving stiffly, joints creaking. Bane cocked his head just enough to see the inmate from the corner of his left eye. One scrawny, trembling hand emerged for the tattered folds of what appeared to be a blanket draped over his shoulders. It reached forward, claw-like, past Bane’s shoulder.

            With sudden concern Bane stretched Talia just out of the man’s reach. “You can’t touch him; just look at him is all.”

            The arm jerked back beneath the blanket, and Saul stumbled sideways, putting him more within Bane’s sight.

            “No need to run off like a scared rabbit. Just don’t touch him, yeah?”

            Saul’s gaze jumped past him with a flash of wild fear. Bane heard the scuff of a foot behind him, and Saul bolted away just as Bane realized the danger.

            In a blur someone ripped Talia from his hands.

            “No!” Bane cried, lunging for the man’s ankles. The assailant snaked beyond reach and ran away down the corridor.

            Bane was on his heels in an instant, Melisande’s screams chasing after him.

            He had no idea who the assailant was, for the man’s _shemagh_ and loose clothing sufficiently concealed his identity from behind, but Bane wasted no time upon such useless detail. All he focused on was reaching the man before the darkness of the deeper corridor could protect him.

            Talia’s cries flew back at him, piercing, frightened, tearing at Bane. He wanted to curse the man but did not waste his breath, directing his physical efforts to running faster than he ever had in life. He was close, only a few strides away. Shouts came from far behind, from the stepwell, mingling with Melisande’s shrieking calls for anyone to stop the assailant.

            The only illumination in the corridor now came from various cells where braziers, candles, or lanterns were lit, so Bane almost did not detect the large form that suddenly blocked their path. The assailant nearly slammed into the dark shape. Instinctively Bane halted, pulling forth his knife in case the unknown inmate were to champion the kidnapper’s cause and keep him from pursuit.

            But it was apparent through the sudden shouting between the two that the newcomer was no ally. Bane recognized Yemi’s voice amidst the Arabic of Ramzi, who now stood with his back to the nearest empty cell, eyes flashing in desperation between Yemi and Bane. The voices of prisoners in nearby cells added to the confusing din.

            “Put him down!” Bane screamed at Ramzi, brandishing the knife.

            “Stay back!” Ramzi yelled above Talia’s cries. “Both of you or I’ll smash its head in.”

            Yemi roared for everyone to be silent. Only Bane refused.

            “Put him down, damn you!”

            “What the hell are you doing with that baby, Ramzi?” Yemi demanded.

            “I’m going to trade him. That bitch comes from money. She can pay if she wants him back.”

            Bane snarled, “She doesn’t have any money.”

            “No, but her father does.” Ramzi strengthened his hold on Talia, using her as a shield.

            “You’re hurting him! Let him go!”

            Ramzi’s wild eyes took in the other prisoners, some of whom had stepped from their cells. “Anyone helps me, I will share what I get.”

            A couple of them murmured amongst themselves, but no one stepped forward to challenge Yemi’s formidable presence or Bane’s ready blade, no doubt remembering what he had done to the Vulture and to Gola.

            “Get out of the way,” Ramzi said to Yemi.

            “Only when you free the child unharmed,” the Nigerian rumbled, flexing meaty fists, eyes unblinking. “This is what is going to happen: Bane will put that knife away, and you are going to hand that child over to him.”

            “Go to hell.”

            “If you don’t do as I say, then the two of us are going to tear you apart.”

            “I’ll break its neck.”

            “I’ll kill you,” Bane said.

            “Killing that baby won’t keep you alive, Ramzi,” Yemi continued in his painfully patient tone. “Letting it live will. So you tell me—is it worth having me rip your arms off and Bane slicing off your cock and feeding it to you?”

            Some of the other prisoners laughed and whistled. Ramzi glared at them, the realization sinking in that no one would assist him. Bane could see the hope drain from his dark eyes. Talia continued to cry and struggle. It took every fiber of Bane’s being to remain where he was, every muscle ready to spring should Ramzi make a move to run or to drop Talia. There was little he could do to keep the Arab from breaking Talia’s neck, so he waited in veiled terror to see if Yemi’s threat had struck home.

            Even this far into the corridor Melisande’s anguished cries reached his ears. He heard others coming up behind him, drawn by the shouts, driven here by Melisande’s screams. He held his breath, hoping none of the newcomers would take Ramzi’s side.

            “What the hell is this?”

            When Bane heard Hans’s voice, he turned with overwhelming relief. The big German shouldered his way through the small crowd, no one daring to impede him. Ramzi wilted beneath the man’s icy stare and glanced down at Talia, little debate left now.

            “Fine,” the Arab growled at Yemi. “I will give it to the boy, but first you will give me your word that you will let me pass.”

            Yemi exchanged a glance with Hans before he nodded.

            “And that boy puts his blade away,” Ramzi said.

            “Do it,” Yemi ordered Bane.

            Bane hesitated, fingers flexing against the knife handle, heart pounding in his ears. Talia’s cries worked against his anger more than Yemi’s words or Hans’s presence. Finally he obeyed, returning the blade to its sheath beneath his tunic, still ready to spring should Ramzi attempt to flee.

            The Arab held Talia at arm’s length as he slid first one foot then the other toward Bane, moving sideways to keep his back and flanks protected. Bane stepped forward and pulled Talia from him. Ramzi jumped back out of reach. Bane hugged Talia against his shoulder, his right hand free in case he needed the knife. Backing away, he gently shushed Talia. Then he wheeled and shoved his way through the crowd, now concerned only with getting her to safety. He would deal with Ramzi another day.


	46. Chapter 46

            Bane’s anger had drained away by the time he neared Melisande’s cell, and Talia had quieted, her wet cheek nestled against his neck. Melisande sat crumpled against the door, her hands gripping the bars, her pale face pressed against the steel, sobbing. Her eyes opened when she heard Bane’s approach, and she scrambled to her feet, reaching through the bars, too bereft to form words through her tears.

            “It’s all right,” Bane soothed as he fumbled for the key pinned in his pants pocket. “He’s not hurt.”

            With the door unlocked, Melisande nearly came out of her cell to get to her child, but Bane blocked her with his body. Frantically she tore Talia from him, drew her close as she retreated to the back of her cell, still sobbing uncontrollably. Talia began to fuss then cry as Melisande sank to the floor, kissing her over and over.

            Bane stepped inside and locked the door. At a loss, he stood there, Melisande’s emotions tearing at him. Futilely he struggled to voice an explanation but realized nothing he could say would ease her trauma.

            “Is he all right?” Doctor Assad’s concerned voice turned him.

            Absently Bane wiped the back of his hand across his wet face as he nodded, avoiding the doctor’s eye.

            “Come out of there, boy. There’s nothing you can do. Leave her be.”

            Bane hesitated, wishing Melisande would look at him, would say something, would stop crying. He felt the doctor’s impatience and at last obeyed. Assad held out his hand for the key, which Bane surrendered.

            “Now I suspect this will be the end of it,” the physician said with furrowed brow, for he—though never contending Talia’s trips into the shaft—had never encouraged the idea. “It is probably best if you come to my cell for a bit.”

            “I should stay with her.”

            “No,” Assad put an arm around his shoulders, “you should not.”

#

            Bane returned to his cell late in the afternoon to find Melisande sitting on her charpoy, her back angled toward the door as she breast fed Talia. She did not look up as Bane busied himself with cleaning out his brazier. Once Talia was fed, Melisande walked her, patting her back and softly humming, but there was little happiness in the sound, instead a distance, the melody distracted and occasionally broken.

            Finished with his task, Bane shuffled over to sit on his charpoy, picking up _Our Mutual Friend_ , which he had been reading aloud to Melisande and Talia that morning. He opened it but only stared at the stark, yellowed page.

            “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

            Talia expelled a small belch, the comical noise drawing a private smile to his lips, but the expression quickly died when Melisande did not respond to him. She continued to pace her cell for several minutes more before coming to sit on her charpoy, her back to him, Talia making quiet sounds in her arms.

            “You don’t have to apologize,” she quietly said.

            “But I should have—”

            “Bane…it’s over now. He’s safe. That is all that matters.”

            He did not believe her, especially because of her body language.

            “Now he won’t be able to go to the shaft, will he?”

            “No.”

            “I’m going to kill Ramzi.”

            “And what will that accomplish?”

            “It will make it safe again.”

            “Killing one man will not make it safe, Bane. And you cannot kill them all.”

            She eased Talia down against her pillow and wrapped her in the crocheted blanket. Bane wanted to reach through the bars and touch the child, wanted to take Melisande’s hand and know she did not hold him culpable. She reached for the little cap he had made and gently snugged it upon the infant’s head to protect against the fast-approaching evening chill.

            “Promise me you won’t go after Ramzi.”

            “I can’t promise that. He deserves to die.”

            Melisande kept her eyes on Talia, her index finger tickling the baby’s chin, drawing happy chortles. “And who is to say he will not kill you?”

            “Ramzi doesn’t have the nerve; he’s a coward. Today just proved that even more. No one else would have done what he did…terrorizing a baby.”

            “When men are desperate they will do desperate things. Don’t give the others credit they do not deserve.”

            “But they aren’t all like Ramzi. Yemi and Hans aren’t; they helped me get Henri back. And there were a lot of others there, but no one took Ramzi’s side.”

            “Maybe not right then with Hans and Yemi there, but on another day…”

            “Well,” Bane said stubbornly, “I can’t make a promise I know I won’t keep.” No longer able to resist the smile Talia flashed at him, he reached through the bars to offer his finger, which she immediately grasped, squirming in triumph and pulling it to her mouth. The thought of Ramzi almost extinguishing that smile forever made his blood race once again, the fingers of his right hand twitching. Perhaps death was too good for Ramzi; his suffering would be more complete if he were to rot here until he finally died an old man. Yet Bane knew he had to send a message, a message they would all remember if, one day, Talia was to see the light of the shaft again.

#

            He knew Ramzi would be vigilant for some time after the kidnapping, expecting retribution, so Bane bided his time, letting the days slip by. He wanted his revenge to be witnessed, for that would be the only way to make a deep impression on the rest of the inmates. He would not skulk and plot a way to attack Ramzi in a dark corridor. No, he would kill the man in the shaft. The others would see the penalty to be paid for attempting to harm Talia. Of course he knew he would be punished for the murder, but he cared only about revenge.

            Being deprived of Talia’s company only worsened his mood and kept his burning desire for vengeance stoked. Melisande invited him into her cell on numerous occasions, but as always—painful though it was—he declined. He did not ask if he could take Talia to the doctor’s cell or into his own, for he knew Melisande would not allow it. His only hope was that over time she would acquiesce, perhaps once Ramzi was dead.

            He spent much of his time away from his cell, not only to avoid Talia’s questioning eyes but because he still felt guilty for her kidnapping. Sometimes he wondered if Ramzi had used Crazy Saul as bait, to distract him that day, but—remembering the fear on Saul’s face just before Ramzi had snatched Talia—he usually discarded such a notion. Since that day he had not seen Saul again. One time shortly after the attack, when Bane went into the shaft at night, he heard someone else not far from where he sat, and he caught a faint whiff of Saul, but after that he never sensed the man’s presence again.

            Talia had begun to teethe, so she often grew peevish, crying and fussing no matter how Melisande tried to soothe her. Sometimes she cried in the middle of the night, which brought curses and threats from the prisoners in the closest cells. Some, like Gola, fled their cells on such nights to sleep in the shaft or down one of the corridors.

            Last night had been a particularly restless one, and when Bane had drifted in and out of sleep he heard Melisande pacing, trying to settle the baby. When morning came, Bane awoke and rolled over to see Melisande in bed, fast asleep, exhaustion written upon her face. Talia lay within the protective curve of her mother’s body, but she was wide awake, making quiet sounds and drooling as she chewed upon one tiny fist. Her eyes—still the dark blue that they had been at birth—reached for him when he stirred. He grinned at her, and she smiled against her hand, her other arm appearing from beneath the blanket. Her soft skin beckoned to him and his desire to hold her destroyed his happy expression.

            Carefully, so he would not awaken Melisande, he sat up and reached through the bars. Slowly he pulled Talia out from beneath the blanket. She wore only a crocheted shirt and a diaper. Her skin was pink and warm, her toes wiggling as he lifted her. Drawing her close to the bars, he pressed his face against the cold metal so he could kiss her forehead. Her slobbery fingers left her mouth to reach for his nose. He kissed her fingers then her lips. He longed to feel her soft warmth against him but sighed in futility and started to return her to the blankets. Talia frowned and protested, awakening Melisande who moaned with fatigue.

            “Sorry,” Bane whispered as Talia fought against his attempts to cover her back up.

            “Oh, Bane…” Melisande drew Talia against her, but the child was soon in full voice, causing several sleepy curses to be thrown her way from nearby cells.

            Bane chewed on his lower lip as he gathered his courage. “What if I take him for a while so you can get some more sleep?”

            Melisande’s tired eyes lifted to him in apology. “No. He will settle soon.” Her hand fumbled amidst the blankets until she located Talia’s pacifier and offered it to the baby’s gaping mouth. At first Talia tried to push it away, but when Melisande persisted, the child finally latched onto it.

            A sharp wave of frustration pushed Bane out of bed. There was anger, too, something he rarely felt toward Melisande. How much longer would he and Talia be punished for what Ramzi had done? Snatching up his _shemagh_ and a blanket to use as a cloak against the morning cold, he left his cell for the stepwell.

            He did not return for breakfast but instead went to Doctor Assad’s cell. There he waited in silence until the man finished his meal before they could start on rounds. While eating, the doctor glanced a couple of times at him, but he saw the black aggravation on Bane’s face and wisely did not attempt to engage him.

            They did not finish rounds until nearly noon. Bane still did not return to his cell. Instead he drifted toward the stepwell, stopping next to a pillar. Staring up at the light, all he could think of were the times he used to bring Talia here each day. Anger rose up to choke him, and his fingers twitched in agitation. Then his gaze slipped back down the shaft, down, down to the pool where several prisoners were washing. His eyes narrowed upon one of them.

            Bane slipped back to his cell long enough to discard his blanket and remove his shoes. Melisande was sitting on a mat near her door, mending a tear in her _shemagh_. Talia lay asleep on the charpoy. The sight of her so near yet beyond his possession drove him from his cell with fresh resolve and a simmering rage. When Melisande called to him, he ignored her and headed back to the shaft.

            He peered around a pillar to make sure no one had left from a couple of minutes ago. Satisfied, he traversed the outer edge of the shaft, concealed by pillars and shadows until he reached the far side, out of his prey’s line of sight. Then, moving on silent feet, he descended the steps with smooth stealth. One or two prisoners noticed him, but no one reacted, too accustomed to his presence for it to merit a second glance. The closer he drew to the bottom of the stepwell, the louder his heartbeat in his ears. He tried to calm his breathing as his hand slipped beneath his tunic. If there was any hesitation in his step, all he had to do was remember that terrifying moment when Ramzi had swiped Talia from his hands.

            Ramzi sat at the pool, soaking his feet. A couple of days ago, while on rounds, the doctor had stopped at Ramzi’s cell to treat a cut on the Arab’s foot. Ramzi had insisted that Bane remain outside of his cell, which was agreeable with Bane, for he wanted nothing to do with the man and certainly had no desire to ease any of his suffering. The doctor had instructed Ramzi to soak the foot twice a day.

            When Bane reached the bottom of the shaft, he did not falter. He marched directly toward Ramzi. It was only then that anyone reacted—one man directly across the pool from Ramzi stood, his attention upon Bane. Ramzi’s head came up. With a sudden jerk he turned just as Bane raised his knife. Instinctively Ramzi lifted his arm as a shield, catching the blade’s first plunge. Terror blossomed in the Arab’s eyes as he tried to push himself away, but Bane’s attack was relentless, swift, not allowing the man the ability to stand. The blade struck multiple times—the neck, the chest, the fending arms. Blood flying. The shaft now echoed with various voices, but Bane sensed no one coming to Ramzi’s aid. He did not stop, knowing to falter could give Ramzi an opening to flee. Finally the man’s outcries died, and he lay motionless beside the pool, his blood trickling into the water and turning it a milky red.

            He stood over Ramzi for a long moment, mesmerized by his own carnage, staring at the mangled form. He felt none of the horror that he had experienced after the Vulture’s death. Nor did he feel triumph…only a subtle satisfaction, a security, knowing this man would never again harm Talia. Around him, from all directions, high and low, he felt the stares of dozens of prisoners, not just those around the pool but those who had raced to the shaft upon hearing the shouts of other inmates. But now no one spoke.

            Then, from the top of the stepwell, came Melisande’s concerned voice, calling his name. Talia was crying, her tiny voice somehow heard over her mother. Bane glanced around at the other prisoners. One or two nodded at him, respectful, agreeable, then they went back to what they had been doing before he had arrived. Others crept away.

            “Drag him away from the pool,” one man said. “He’s fouling the water.”

            Bane crouched beside the pool and rinsed off his knife. He met the complainer’s gaze as he dried the blade with his tunic. The man cursed under his breath and looked away.

            “You move him,” Bane said as he stood.

            He climbed the steps, no one blocking his path. Only then did he feel the weakness in his knees, but he ignored it, pressed on, sheathing his weapon. Melisande kept calling out to him, and though he heard her, he felt far distant from the sound, unmoved by its urgency. When he reached the top and started for his cell, Doctor Assad and Hans converged upon him from two different sides, but he ignored their words, brusquely pushed past.

            Before heading into the shadows, Bane pulled his _shemagh_ up over his head and glanced toward the pool. Two prisoners were dragging Ramzi away from the water, leaving behind a broad, black swath of blood upon the gray stone.


	47. Chapter 47

            “Mama, go out! Go out with Ba-ba.”

            “No, baby.”

            “Mama, go _out_ now!”

            “Hush, _habibi_. Come lie down with me.”

            “No. Ba-ba, take me.”

            “Bane isn’t taking you anywhere. Now come over here like I said.”

            “Shit,” Gola growled. “Here we go again.” With an irritated sigh, the perpetually lame man hobbled to his door and escaped the battle.

            Talia’s large eyes pleaded with Bane, her hands wrapped around the bars of her cell door, trying in vain to budge it with toddler fury.

            Bane could not help but smile at her stubborn determination. He had been on his way to visit Hans, but as usual Talia had watched his every move as he left his cell, and when he dared pass by her door, she ran across the cell to stop him. Now he returned to crouch in front of her and apologize once again, something he had done countless times since she had started forming words.

            “You must be good and do as your mother says.”

            “No, Ba-ba. Come with you.” Talia grabbed a hold of his _shemagh_.

            “You know you can’t.”

            “Why?”

            He sighed and pried her hands free, kissed them, and smiled sadly. “Because it isn’t safe.”

            The familiar tears welled up. “Go with you. Be safe.”

            Melisande sat up, hands braced on her thighs, that weary look on her face from this endless struggle.

            “Go to your mama,” Bane encouraged, rubbing his hand against the bristly hair on the top of her head. His thumb caressed a small mole on her forehead, a mark that mirrored the one on her mother’s chin. “I promise I won’t be gone long. Then I’ll be back with a surprise, and maybe your mama will let you come to my cell and play.”

            Talia brightened. “Surprise?”

            “That’s right. But you won’t get the surprise unless you do as your mother says right now.”

            With a gasp, she scurried back to Melisande and stood beside her, looking back at Bane with a manipulative grin, the tears instantly gone. “I be good. Get surprise!”

            He returned her grin, and Melisande smiled at his continued indulgence of her precocious child. Long ago she had given up on trying to dissuade him from trading food and possessions for trinkets with which to occupy and amuse Talia.

            Bane headed to Hans’s cell to acquire the latest item, but the German was not there. So he drifted into the stepwell to wait for him. Early morning light dimly illuminated the shaft. He sat and looked up to the sky, which appeared a strange, almost orange color. A sandstorm was brewing. He hated such tempests, for the howling winds caused the shaft to moan eerily and frighten Talia. Also, the winds—which of course could never reach him—always saw fit to send copious amounts of sand into the shaft, fouling the pool. And no one, including Bane, wanted to spend time in the stepwell while the dirt rained down. There was one benefit, however, acquired from the storms—prisoners would scoop up the sand to use as an abrasive for washing clothes or scrubbing cell floors. Bane would gather whatever he could into a small bucket as yet another plaything for Talia. They would sit together in his cell and draw pictures in the sand spread upon the floor.

            His gaze slid down the shaft walls to the pool where a handful of inmates lingered. Unwittingly his attention went to the place where he had killed Ramzi. The blood stain had been scrubbed away long ago. That job had fallen to him, part of his penance after being released from solitary confinement.

            Bane shuddered at the memory of the two horrific weeks that had followed his sentencing. There had been no need for a trial; even without the many witnesses, Bane would have pled guilty and had done so proudly. Usually anyone found guilty of murder and sentenced to solitary confinement received more than two weeks’ duration, but Bane suspected that his stay was relatively short because of the circumstances surrounding Ramzi’s death as well as the fact that Ramzi had few friends beyond Omar Alam.

            He had been taken to the lowest level of the prison, to the end of the deepest corridor where a grating in the floor was opened to admit him. A ladder led downward some twelve feet to a tiny space, like a rat’s den. Once Bane had descended with clammy hands and unsteady steps, the ladder was pulled up and the grate slammed down and locked. Then the small glimmer of lantern light from his jailers faded away as he was left alone.

            In the airless eternal night, with the only sound being that of his panicked breathing and pounding heart, he explored the dirt burrow on hands and knees, for the ceiling was too low—less than five feet—for him to stand. A space perhaps five feet wide by five feet deep. Not enough room to stretch out; if he wanted to lie down he would have to curl up, and if he wanted to stand he would have to do so in the shaft. There was nothing in the burrow except a bucket—his toilet—which was raised and lowered once a day, so whatever he passed he had to live with until someone came to remove it.

            He thought he knew darkness until he had descended into the hole. This was something other-worldly, something that was somehow worse than being physically blind. With blindness surely one simply accepted his fate, knowing nothing could be done. But the darkness of the hole was made unbearable by the thought that light was just beyond reach. And with that blackness came the crushing isolation, when all he could think of was his mother, Talia, and Melisande. Sometimes, when the endless days played tricks on his mind, he thought he heard Talia crying, but of course that was impossible.

            The doctor visited him every day to check on his physical well-being (there was nothing to be done for his mental well-being) and to bring him the one meal he was allowed each day, and that was little more than stale bread and water with an occasional morsel of poor meat. When the doctor arrived, the first words out of Bane’s mouth were always to inquire about Talia. He asked Assad to bring her so he could see her there beyond the iron grate, but of course the doctor never did; even if he wanted to, Melisande would never allow it.

            Sometimes other prisoners came to the grating. There were those he welcomed like Hans or Abrams, but more numerous were inmates like Greyson, Omar Alam, and Gola. These came only to taunt him and urinate into the hole. Even crawling into the burrow, away from the shaft, did not save Bane, for there was still the stench and the puddle that took its time to sink into the hard-packed soil at the base of the shaft where he preferred to sit.

            The cold tore at his endurance; he was not allowed even a blanket, simply his ragged clothing. And there never seemed to be enough air. Sometimes he would wake up in a dripping sweat, unable to breathe from the terror that turned day into night and night into day and blurred all sense of time. Then he would stand, trembling, in the shaft, back pressed against the wall, staring upward, but to look upward was no different than to look inward, for the corridor above was as black as the burrow below. Yet he could sense the open space above, and he would close his eyes and imagine it, drawing comfort from it until his breathing calmed again.

            The silence ate at his mind. Now and then sounds reached him from the corridor, from the closest cells, but most times the earth around him swallowed whatever murmur might try to slip down the shaft. So he began to talk to himself, just to batter away the numbing quiet. Eventually he did not even realize he was speaking. He tried to sing as well, those songs from his mother that he sang to Talia, but often the words crumbled beneath tears, tears that he had kept at bay the first week, but which came in waves the second week. Yet before the end of his time, even those dried up, partly due to the scarcity of moisture in his body, but also because he fought against the weakness.

            When the two weeks finally ended, he could not tell if he had been there a fortnight or forty years. He was barely strong enough to climb up the ladder when the doctor and Hans lowered it. But the desire for open air helped him find the resolve to make it out. His whole body screamed from the confinement, muscles reduced, tendons tight. Hans offered to carry him back to his cell, but Bane refused. He would be damned if he was not going to walk out of the corridor on his own, past the cells of those who had tormented him, his back as straight as he could make it, his steps as sure as his cramped joints would allow.

            Melisande, with Talia asleep in her arms, had cried at the sight of him as he hobbled into his cell, squinting against the weak though painful light. A washtub awaited him, filled with lukewarm water, a Godsend from the doctor. With little thought to Melisande’s presence, he stripped with the doctor’s assistance and sank into the cramped tub, his knees drawn up, bony and filthy, his arms the same where they rested listlessly on the rim of the tub, his fingers barely having the strength to hold them in place. Now back in the security of his cell the weakness took full control, and he had not the ability to even lift the bar of soap which Assad had brought. Without hesitation the doctor took over, gently scrubbing him in front of the glowing brazier. A kettle on top of the brazier was used to periodically add more warm water to the tub. Bane stared at the wonderful coals, at the muted light they provided, the glorious warmth, and before he knew it, his head slumped forward and he fell asleep.

            Bane pulled from the memory, his body suddenly chilled. He should have wrapped a blanket around his shoulders before coming to the stepwell. Crossing his arms against his chest, his attention lingered on the muscles of his forearms. A proud smile helped chase away the cold that the memory had stirred. He had grown much over the past year and a half, taller and broader, able now to use Hans’s weights every day. The hard muscles reflected his work ethic. At least two hours twice a day spent working out with Hans. He liked how Hans pushed him, physically challenged him, because it told him that the German no longer considered him a mere boy, one whose body was too fragile for the work. Since he had killed Ramzi, he had gained more respect from the other prisoners, and as his body bulked up even those who despised him viewed him with care.

            His time spent in the hole had all but destroyed what he had accomplished with his workouts prior to that time, but once he had recovered, he resumed his work with fresh fervor. Lately, as he pushed himself more and more, he knew he would soon be strong enough to attempt escape once again. However, except for telling Hans, he kept such plans to himself for now.

            “Daydreaming again, are we?”

            Bane looked up as Hans came toward him, grinning.

            “Waiting for you. Did you get it?”

            “ _Ja_.”

            They headed for Hans’s cell. Once there, Bane stood in eager anticipation as Hans rummaged through his things, finally straightening and turning around, the object held proudly in his hand.

            “Where did you get it?”

            “Sayid Kattan. Took me a while to find someone with the size you wanted.” He presented the small block of wood to Bane.

            “But Sayid doesn’t smoke.”

            “True enough, but he can use those two cigarettes of yours to trade for something more useful.”

            Grinning, Bane thanked him as he turned the wood over in his hands. Often when he needed an item he used Hans as a go-between, for many of the men willing to trade were men who would hesitate if they knew Bane was the recipient.

            “For the child, _ja_? What will it be this time?”

            “I’m thinking a horse. That’s why I wanted something that had some size. Won’t be as easy for him to break if there’s some heft to it.”

            Hans chuckled. “Good thinking.” His steely eyes considered Bane. “Did Melisande contribute something for the cigarettes?”

            “I didn’t ask her to.” Bane could not keep the defensiveness from his tone. “She always offers when I bring something back for the baby, but I won’t take anything from her. I mean, it would be taking from _them_ , not just her. And I can’t do that.”

            Hans shook his head with a teasing expression. “I didn’t think you could care for anyone more than Melisande, but that child of hers has you wrapped around his finger.”

            “No harm in that,” Bane grumbled.

            Hans dryly laughed. “No harm in it? Two weeks in solitary? Giving away food and fuel?” He shook his head and held up a hand to head off Bane’s protest. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to lecture you anymore. Go on back to your family now. I’ll see you later.”


	48. Chapter 48

            Talia was already standing at her cell door, face pressed to the bars in anticipation of Bane’s return. When she spotted him coming, she jigged with happiness.

            “Ba-ba, gimme surprise!”

            He stopped in front of her and brought his hands out from behind his back to display the block of wood.

            “Make toy!”

            “That’s right. I’m going to start carving right away.”

            Melisande smiled. “What will it be this time?”

            He grinned at Talia. “It’s a surprise.”

            “ _More_ surprise?”

            “Yep.”

            Talia hopped up and down. “Me help, Mama. Me help Ba-ba.”

            “No, _habibi_. You can watch from here.” She patted the charpoy where she sat crocheting with the yarn she had acquired through the last resupply, thanks to pooling her resources with Bane.

            Talia stomped her foot in anger, but Bane wagged a finger at her. “Uh-uh. No toy if you don’t behave. If you’re good, maybe your mama will change her mind and let you come to my cell.”

            “Please, Mama.” She artfully turned her large, beautiful eyes to her mother who laughed.

            “Maybe, if you’re good.”

            Once Bane had gone into his cell and sat on his charpoy to start work, Talia raced over to her cot and sat as close as possible to the bars.

            Without looking up from her work, Melisande asked, “Bane, will you tell me what this cost you?”  
            “No.”

            She sighed. “Well, I’m making you a pair of socks. And you will accept them as payment.”

            “Use the yarn for Henri.”

            “There will be no argument.”

            He caught her stern glance as he unsheathed his knife. Then her expression softened into a smile, causing him to blush.

            Talia gasped excitedly when she saw the blade. She stretched her arms through the bars. “Gimme, Ba-ba.”

            “No, no. It’s not a toy. How many times must I tell you that?”

            “I want.”

            “If you have the knife, how am I going to carve your toy?”

            “Oh.” She withdrew her arms in defeat, biting her lower lip.

            “When you’re older, I’ll get you a knife of your own.”

            “Bane,” Melisande scolded. “Henri will have no need of a knife.”

            Bane winked at Talia. “Sure he will. He can carve his own toys then.”

            Talia grinned, always enjoying their banter at her mother’s expense.

            As Bane began to carve the horse, Talia watched with rapt attention for the first few minutes. Then she gradually sank back against her mother and yawned. As the wood shavings gathered in a small pile atop Bane’s blanket, she momentarily drifted off. Her silence left Bane’s thoughts to wander, and as the horse began to take shape, he remembered carving the knights for the Vulture’s chess set. He paused for a moment, his attention lost upon the blade that had killed both the Vulture and Ramzi. Perhaps that was really why he never let Talia touch it—he hoped she would never have to do the things he had done…and was prepared to do still.

            When Talia awoke from her doze, she begged her mother endlessly to let her go into Bane’s cell, convinced he would finish the toy quicker if she were sitting with him. Melisande refused, but when Doctor Assad passed along the corridor, Talia raced to the door and stuck a hand through the bars.

            “Key! Key!”

            With a smile, Assad stopped and crouched down. “It does not look to me as if your mother wants you going anywhere, child.”

            “I help Ba-ba make toy.”

            Assad chuckled. “I don’t carry the key. It is back in my cell.”

            “Key!”

            The doctor raised his eyebrows in question at Melisande, and Bane paused in his work to add the weight of his own gaze to Talia’s cause. The child rushed back to her parent.

            “Please, Mama, please.”

            Assad said, “It is no trouble for me to get it.”

            Melisande hesitated a moment longer.

            Talia whispered loudly, drawing out the word, “Please.”

            Finally Melisande crumbled under the pressure, nodding. “Very well.”

            Talia clapped her hands and danced before urging the doctor to make haste.

            Once locked inside Bane’s cell, Talia sat close to him as he worked on the carving. She constantly tried to guess what it would be, though her list was small, for she knew nothing more than things seen in books and magazines.

            “I’ll give you a hint—it’s a large animal.”

            “Bear!”

            “No. It’s something you can ride.”

            “Ride bear.”

            He laughed. “No, you can’t ride a bear.”

            “Why not?”

            “He’d eat you.”

            Gola, returning to his cell, called out, “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

            “Be quiet, Go-a!” Talia shouted.

            “Henri,” Melisande scolded. “Mind your manners.”

            “But Ba-ba say quiet.”

            “Just because Bane says something doesn’t mean you can, too.”

            Bane distracted Talia. “What other large animals are there? Remember the ones I was drawing in the sand the other day?”

            “Camel!”

            “No.”

            “You say.”

            “No, you must guess or wait until it’s done.”

            She huffed and tried to snatch the wood.

            Bane held it out of reach. “What a little savage you are. Maybe I should call the doctor to put you back in your cell.”

            “No, Ba-ba. I be good.” She dutifully folded her hands in her lap.

            “That’s more like it.”

            “Put him in with me,” Gola called. “I will teach him some manners.”

            Talia gasped and looked at Bane as if afraid he might give in to Gola’s taunt. Whenever she misbehaved, he often teased that he and Melisande would give her to Gola. Now she clutched his sleeve.

            “I be good,” she whispered.

            Bane chuckled. “I know.”

            She climbed to her feet on the charpoy and stood behind him, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her face against his cheek.

            “Camel.”

            “No. No humps…see?”

            She groaned and tightened her hold.

            “Strangling me won’t make me tell. And if I die because I can’t breathe, who would finish the toy?”

            “What die?”

            He realized she would have no concept of what dying meant, and he instantly regretted even joking about it, for she was always quick to latch onto a new word or idea.

            “What die?”

            He caught Melisande’s cautioning eye. “It means…well, it’s like sleeping. Like taking a long nap.”

            “No, make toy.”

            He grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to take a nap until after I finish this.”

            “No nap. Play.”

            “Okay.”

            She crawled into his lap, and he had to lift the wood and knife high to make room. She settled against his chest and left arm, and he resumed his work with his arms around her.

            “You aren’t making this any easier.”

            Whenever she was with him, she always crowded close, even more so than she did with her mother. Perhaps it was simply for the warmth his body offered, but he figured it was more likely because of how little time they got to spend together. He always welcomed her physical displays, which reminded him of how much he missed and appreciated his own mother’s loving touch. He hoped his returned affection somehow made up for her lack of a father to spoil her, though of course she had no concept of fatherly love or indeed even knowledge of the word father.

            Talia remained quiet for a couple of minutes, playing with his _shemagh_ , pulling it off him then putting it back on, sometimes covering his face and giggling until she realized it impeded his progress on her toy. Then she snuggled tighter against him, first tickling his ear, then playing with his hair, which he had allowed to grow a few inches on top while keeping the sides closely-cropped. At last her tiny finger traced the outline of his lips then moved horizontally across them, a ritual she often performed to encourage him to kiss her.

            “Pretty,” she said.

            “Pretty?” he scoffed playfully. “Pretty is for girls. Your mama is pretty. I’m a boy.”

            Talia smiled at her mother. “Mama pretty. Ba-ba boy. What me?”

            “You? You are trouble.” He set aside his work long enough to wrap his arms around her and squeeze her, making her squeal and laugh. Ignited with energy, she struggled from his hold and ran in circles around his cell.

            “Chase me, Ba-ba, chase me!”

            In the next cell, Bane caught Abrams’s veiled smile where he lay on his charpoy, eyes closed.

            “I can’t chase you _and_ carve your toy. Which do you want?”

            She continued to run, becoming breathless. “Make toy!”

            “Right then. Stop running and come help me.”

            Panting, she rushed back to the charpoy.

            “Take these wood shavings and put them in the brazier. Can you do that for me?”

            “Yes, Ba-ba.”

            She channeled her energy into the task, as always taking any such duties Bane assigned to her very seriously, moving with precision between the charpoy and the brazier, careful not to drop a single piece of wood.

            “Make fire.”

            “Are you cold?”

            “A little.”

            “No, _habibi_ ,” Melisande called. “Don’t make Bane use his charcoal this time of day. Here, come take this blanket for now. You can have a fire when it is time to cook.”

            Bane drew the blanket through the bars. Talia had finished with the wood chips and came over for Bane to wrap the colorful blanket—her father’s blanket—around her. Then he pulled her back into his lap.

            “Did I ever tell you the story of when this blanket was stolen from your mama?”

            “No. Tell story, Ba-ba.”

            “Well, remember how I told you that your mama used to come with me to the shaft at night and we would look at the stars?”

            Talia nodded, attention riveted to him. Of course she would remember such a thing because his revelation had added ammunition to her constant insistence that she be allowed to accompany him to the stepwell.

            “Well, one night your mama wrapped herself in this blanket, just like you are now. But when we came back here, she accidental left the blanket behind, and someone took it.”

            Talia gasped, her fingers clutching at the blanket, drawing it tighter. She had grown more attached to Melisande’s blanket than the crocheted one she had had since birth.

            “But I found out who had taken it, and I got it back.”

            “How?”

            As he continued to carve the horse, he told her the story of how he had tricked Omar Alam, though of course he left out the details of the unsavory reward he had offered the thief. They laughed over the image of Alam tripping and falling on his face, and though Melisande attempted to be immune to the story, Bane caught a smile at the corner of her mouth as she crocheted.

            “That’s a very special blanket, you know,” he said, close to Talia’s ear. “It was a gift from your father.”

            Melisande’s tiny gasp made Bane realize his slip. He momentarily froze, eyes widening upon the block of wood, his hands still, hoping in vain that Talia had not caught the new word.

            “Father?” Talia echoed, looking up at him. She reacted to his expression, stirring in his lap so she could better see his face.

            At a loss Bane helplessly stammered, glancing apologetically at Melisande for assistance.

            “Who that, Ba-ba?”

            “Well, I—he…”

            “A bad man?”

            “No, no…not a bad man; a good man.”

            “Where?”

            He stopped himself, looked again to Melisande, said, “I’m sorry.”

            She sighed. “It would happen sooner or later.” She set aside her work and gestured to Talia so she would come closer to the bars. The suddenly sober atmosphere brought a hint of fear to the child’s countenance, so she quickly obeyed her mother. Melisande leaned closer, taking Talia’s hands, offering a smile of reassurance.

            “Everyone has a father and a mother, _habibi_. A man and a woman who love each other very much. And fathers and mothers take care of their babies, babies like you.”

            Talia frowned and looked at Bane. “Ba-ba father?”

            Gola burst out laughing, startling Talia. “He wishes!”

            This time it was Abrams who snarled at Gola to be quiet. Red-faced, Bane snatched up his knife and continued work on his carving.

            Melisande lowered her voice when she continued. “No, Bane is not your father. Your father is far away. He can’t be here right now, but one day he will be with us.”

            Talia’s brow furrowed. “He not here?”

            “No, sweetie.”

            “Why?”

            Melisande kissed her hands. “I will tell you when you are older, when you can understand.”

            Talia seemed to ponder all of this for a long moment, her frown deepening as she drew her hands back to the blanket. “Where Ba-ba’s father?”

            Now it was Melisande’s turn to falter. Something twisted in Bane’s heart, as if the knife sliced his body instead of the block of wood, keeping him from looking at either mother or child. Talia shifted closer to him, one hand touching his leg.

            Knowing he could not escape answering, he said, “My father is far away like yours.” The knife gouged too deep into the wood, shaving off more than intended. He relaxed his grip, paused to regain his focus. “But some day I’m going to find him.” Bane forced a smile for Talia’s benefit, washing away the concern on the child’s face. “Just like your father.”


	49. Chapter 49

            Talia’s wrenching coughs jarred Bane awake.

            “Mama, I’m hot,” the three-year-old’s raspy moan sliced through the night.

            “It’s your fever, _habibi_ ,” Melisande whispered. “I’ll get a damp cloth for your forehead.”

            The charpoy creaked as Melisande got up. Talia coughed again, her congested lungs rattling. She softly whined in discomfort.

            “Ba-ba…”

            Bane reached through the bars and caressed her hot cheek. “I’m here.”

            “Don’t feel good.”

            “I know.”

            She coughed again and began to quietly cry. “Can I come sleep with you?”

            “No, sweetie,” Melisande’s gentle words as she returned with the cool cloth and wiped her daughter’s face and neck. “I can’t take care of you if you are in Bane’s cell.”

            “Come with me.”

            “No, _habibi_. You know I can’t.”

            “Please…”

            “Hush; no arguing. Rest.”

            The coughs came again. “Hurts, Mama.”

            “I know, sweetheart. Lie on your side; it will help. Would you like a drink?”

            “Yes.”

            Bane reached through the bars to help her sit up, alarmed by how much higher her fever had spiked. When she was finished drinking and handed the cup back to her mother, Talia reached for Bane’s hand as she lay back down. She sniffled as her tears continued to flow. Melisande lay beside her again, passing the cloth over her warm flesh, kissing her. Just above a whisper, she began to sing to her child, and in time Talia drifted off, her grip on Bane’s hand loosening. A short while later Melisande fell into exhausted slumber as well. But Bane could not sleep. Carefully he extricated his hand from Talia’s blanket and silently left his cell.

            He went into the stepwell, frustration and anxiety burning in him like Talia’s fever. Sitting down, he drew in a long breath, tried to collect himself. He stared toward the mouth of the shaft where the overcast night blended shaft and sky together, making him feel buried in the isolation hole once again. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his breathing, slowly able to master his turmoil.

            From one of the corridors came the distant sound of a prisoner coughing, a harsh noise similar to Talia’s cough. A stubborn respiratory ailment had been creeping through the prison for several weeks now, already having claimed the two oldest prisoners in the pit. Few were immune, including Bane, but his case had been moderate, and he had been strong enough to fight it off, as had Melisande. But Talia was another story. She had fallen ill a week ago, just after the prison’s supply of antibiotics had been exhausted. Another resupply would not arrive for three more weeks, if on schedule. Bane feared Talia would not be strong enough to last that long.

            Listening to her cough, feeling the heat of her fever took him back to those horrible days when his mother had lain dying in front of him. He had never wanted to feel that helpless again. The possibility that Talia might succumb as his mother had brought tears to his eyes, and here—alone in the blackness—he allowed them to flow, listened to the drops patter against his clothing. But he did not give the weakness free rein for long, wiping his cheeks with his _shemagh_ and sniffing back the remaining tears.

            Again his gaze trailed up the shaft. Could he make the climb? Though he had physically matured—now somewhere around eighteen years old, if he correctly recalled his birth date—the old doubt and fear made him question whether or not his strength would be enough. He had never forgotten the terror he had felt when he had lost his grip and plunged down the shaft during his escape attempt. To fail now could mean Talia’s death…yet to not make the climb could mean the same outcome. To succeed... He frowned. Over the past year he had often toyed with the idea of escape, only to abandon it, and he knew his dismissal was not simply because of that fear of failure and physical pain but also because he feared that should they all escape he could very well be parted from Melisande and Talia forever. Of course there was the possibility that Melisande—out of generosity for all he had done over the years—might continue to include him as a member of her family and encourage him to accompany them on their search for Henri Ducard. Yet there was also the very real possibility that they would go their separate ways. After all, he needed to find his father first and foremost…for his mother’s sake as well as his own. But…he could not imagine life without Melisande and Talia…his family, as Hans always referred to them.

            Bane’s nose wrinkled at a sudden odor. He stiffened in surprise and listened. Close. The barely audible scuff of a foot. Crazy Saul. Bane’s hand slipped beneath his tunic to his knife, waited. Whispered mumbles slipped toward him from the left, and he turned slightly. He had not seen Saul in the light of day for months, but recently—since Talia’s illness—Bane had sensed him in the corridor at night sometimes, drifting past their cells, whispering unintelligibly, agitated, but he never lingered, just slipped in and out like a ghost.

            “I know you’re there,” Bane now said, his voice quiet. Usually when Saul was in the shaft at the same time, the old man did not venture close and often moved with no sound. Saul’s deviation from that normal behavior told Bane there was purpose behind his actions. “What do you want?”

            Silence, but only for a moment. Then the mumbles continued, somewhat louder.

            “I can’t hear you.” Bane stopped himself from inviting the malodorous prisoner closer.

            More shuffles. “I know… I know…”

            “If you know, then speak up.”

            “I know…yes, I know.”

            Bane hesitated, realized Saul was trying to communicate. “What do you know?”

            “He doesn’t know that I know.”

            “Who?”

            “Spencer… Spencer doesn’t know.”

            “Aaron Spencer?”

            “Yes.”

            “What doesn’t he know?”

            “That I know.”

            Bane clenched his teeth, forced himself to remain patient. “What do you know, Saul?”

            “No, no, no…not Saul; they’ll know, they’ll know.”

            “Right. I won’t say your name; I won’t tell anyone we talked. Now…what do you know?”

            “The baby…the baby is sick.”

            Bane frowned at the sharp change of subject. Did he mean Talia or some baby in his muddled memory? After all, Talia was certainly no longer an infant. “You mean Henri?”

            “Yes, the baby…the baby is sick.”

            “Yes, very sick.”

            “I know…”

            Frustration flared in Bane, and he rolled his lips together to stifle a curse. Tersely he asked, “ _What_ do you know?”

            “The medicine…I know…yes, I know where it is.”

            Bane nearly jumped to his feet. “Medicine? Where is there medicine?”

            “He doesn’t know that I know.”

            “Who? Spencer? Spencer has medicine?” Bane’s mind spun. Of course, if anyone had something valuable squirreled away for a rainy day it would be Aaron Spencer. Some said that long ago the Canadian had managed to excavate one of the square stones of his floor, and beneath that stone he kept a stash of valuable items for himself or to use in trade during particularly hard times.

            “Yes,” Saul said, his voice lowering as he drifted away. “Medicine for the baby.”

            Bane’s heart quickened with the thought of salvation so close. He listened, but Crazy Saul was gone, leaving only a faint whiff of stench behind.

            Returning his knife to its sheath, Bane stared across the shaft, his thoughts racing, searching for a solution. In his mind he went through an inventory of possessions or money he and Melisande could offer Spencer in trade, but he sagged when he admitted that nothing he had would be valuable enough to acquire the medicine. Of course Spencer would no doubt agree to the price Bane had fabricated for Omar Alam’s return of Melisande’s blanket, but the very idea of Melisande considering such measures to save her daughter made Bane sick to his stomach. No, he would find an acceptable way, and for now he would say nothing to Melisande.

#

            Bane slept little after returning to his charpoy. He lay awake plotting until just before dawn when he dozed off. As usual, Talia’s coughs awoke him. She looked so weary from the effort, her faded blue eyes moist and heavy-lidded, her lips parted to help her breathe, her nose stuffy and red. When he stirred from under his blankets, she turned her attention upon him, a weak spark flaring momentarily in her.

            “Ba-ba, come sit with me.” Her throat sounded raw, and she struggled to swallow.

            He reached through the bars and tucked her blanket under her chin. “I _am_ sitting with you, silly.” His gaze sought Melisande, who was washing her face at her basin.

            “No,” Talia softly whined. “In here.”

            He offered a wistful smile and again glanced hopefully at Melisande.

            “Mama,” she moaned. “Can Ba-ba sit with me? Please?”

            Melisande dried her face, taking her time, her back still to them. Bane held his breath, realizing that she was actually considering Talia’s request. Of course she would do anything to ease her child’s suffering. Her pale brown eyes—as careworn as Talia’s—turned at last to Bane, lines marring her forehead. For a mere instant her guard dropped to reveal her agony and fear, but then she dried her hands and came to her daughter’s bedside, offering a smile of comfort.

            “If Bane wants to sit with you, he may.”

            That tiny spark flared a bit brighter in Talia, and the girl smiled for the first time in days.

            Bane found the doctor in his cell, finishing his breakfast, soon to make his rounds. When he told him of Talia’s request and Melisande granting entrance, he expected at least an unpleasant expression from Assad, but no dark look or scowl was forthcoming.

            “Let me gather my things then I will accompany you and check on the child. How does he seem this morning to you?”

            “A bit worse, I fear.”

            Assad grunted to himself, shaking his head.

            Bane considered telling the doctor about his encounter with Crazy Saul but decided he would wait until after he talked to Aaron Spencer.

            As they started for Melisande’s cell, Bane’s fingers twitched, and he found it difficult to hold to the doctor’s slower pace. He berated his nervousness—or was it excitement?—at the thought of entering Melisande’s cell, a place he had not dared enter since Talia’s birth. After all, he lived every day and night with only a row of bars between them, so how much different was today? Why should being on the other side of those bars make him feel any different? Let the other prisoners react however they pleased. This visit was not about Melisande but about comforting Talia. To hell with them and their ridiculous jealousies.

            “Ba-ba!” Talia hoarsely cried when she saw them approaching. “Are you still coming in to see me?”

            “Of course.”

            “Will you read to me?”

            “Whatever you like.”

            “Hey, Henri,” Gola called. “I can come over and read to you, you and your mama.” He chuckled licentiously.

            Talia paid him no heed, her eyes on Bane as he and the doctor entered. Melisande stood near the charpoy, anxiously wringing her hands, though she tried to disguise her unrest. Assad manufactured a smile of reassurance, bidding her good morning as she pulled a wooden chair over to the charpoy for him. He settled there, smiling at Talia, putting his bag down.

            “Now let’s see how you are today, little one. Can you sit up for me?”

            The thermometer came away from Talia’s lips with no good news, but Assad masterfully hid any reaction. He examined her nose, ears, and throat, and listened to her lungs with his ancient stethoscope, Melisande and Bane holding their breath. On impulse, Melisande took Bane’s hand, surprising him, but she did not hold it for long, perhaps afraid the doctor would notice. But in that instant he sensed even stronger than before her terror of losing Talia to something as curable as a respiratory infection. Over these several years she had been a bastion of strength for her daughter—and often for him as well—but now she appeared totally lost and alone. Talia had been a healthy child up until now, so nothing had prepared Melisande for seeing the girl so helpless. Though he knew he should not, Bane put his arm around her shoulders, feeling that if he did not physically support her, she might collapse. He had never noticed until now, standing side by side, that he was easily three inches taller than she. She smiled her appreciation and leaned into him, like a tree nearly severed at its base, teetering on the brink.

            With the scent of her hair overpowering him, he put his lips near her ear and whispered, “He will be all right. You’ll see.” Then he kissed her, just a brief brush of his lips in front of her ear, like his mother used to do after whispering some bolstering consolation to him.

            Tears swam in Melisande’s eyes, and words failed her, so instead she rested her head briefly against his shoulder. When the doctor turned from concluding his examination, she straightened. As Assad rummaged in his medical bag, Bane reluctantly allowed his arm to drop away from her. The doctor stood and held out a small bottle for Melisande.

            “This is eucalyptus oil. Add six drops to a cup of boiling water, and let Henri inhale the vapor. It will help him breathe easier. Keep him well hydrated, and try to get him to take some broth. If the fever worsens, send for me.”

            “Thank you, Doctor. Isn’t there…isn’t there anything else we can do?”

            Assad touched her arm. “I know it is difficult, but you must keep your spirits up…for your child’s sake as well as your own.”

            She nodded, wiping at her eyes.

            “Now I must be on my way. You are in capable hands with my young assistant here.”

            Bane smiled his appreciation for the doctor’s magnanimity and went to the door with him.

            “Don’t leave, Ba-ba!”

            “He’s not leaving, _habibi_ ,” Melisande soothed, sitting in the chair Assad had vacated.

            “May I keep the key?” Bane quietly asked. “There’s something I need to do this morning. When Henri falls asleep I’ll bring it to you on your rounds.”

            The doctor hesitated, his attention drifting back to the coughing child. “Very well. Don’t tire him, though. He will be excited to have you here. But he needs rest. He needs to stay strong.”

            Bane nodded, accepting the key and quickly hiding it beneath his tunic. “I’ll try to get him to eat something.”

            With the doctor gone, Melisande fired the charcoal in the brazier to heat water. Bane sat on the edge of the charpoy, Talia’s eyes upon him, seemingly larger than usual in her pale face. She tried to sit up, but he gently restrained her.

            “Now, now. None of that. You must stay lying down for now. You can sit up in a bit when your mama has the eucalyptus ready. After that, I’ll spoon some warm broth into you.”

            “And then will you read to me, Ba-ba?”

            “For a little bit. Then you must rest. Doctor’s orders.” He bent to kiss her nose.

            She smiled, but her voice was already fading. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

            “Me, too.”

            “I wish you could always stay here.”

            “I know you do, but I’m never far, am I?”

            She shook her head and brought one hand from beneath the blanket. He held it in both of his as yet another wave of coughing racked her small frame.


	50. Chapter 50

            Talia fought against sleep while Bane was in her cell, but as he continued to read to her, she finally drifted off. Melisande, too, succumbed to his voice and sat dozing in her chair. As quietly as possible, Bane left them, locking the door with a touch of ruefulness, for he knew not if or when he would be allowed back inside again.

            He looked for Aaron Spencer in the stepwell and in his cell but could not find him. In hurried frustration, he scoured the prison until he found the Canadian playing cards in the cell of a Syrian named Aboud, along with two other prisoners.

            Aboud glowered at Bane and spoke in sardonic Arabic, “What are you doing here, boy? Why are you not nursing that child of yours?”

            The others chuckled darkly, eyes in their cards.

            “I came to talk to Spencer,” Bane said in English.

            “I’m busy, kid. Can’t you see?”

            Not wanting to anger the man by pressing him, Bane held his patience in check, only his restless fingers betraying his agitation. “When will you be free?”

            “Depends how my luck runs.” Spencer shifted a card in his hand, never looking at Bane. “What’s got your pants on fire?”

            Bane hesitated. “I might have a…business proposition for you.”

            “Might? Either you do or you don’t, kid.”

            “It depends.”

            “On what?”

            “Come to my cell when you’re done.”

            “Your cell?” one of the others mocked. “Don’t you mean Melisande’s cell? I hear you spent the morning with her.”

            The fourth man grumbled something with a curse, and they each glanced enviously, angrily at him.

            “Something wrong with you, boy?” Aboud said.

            Bane looked at him in blank confusion.

            “Has to be something wrong with you if you can go in that bitch’s cell and just…read.” He gave a sharp, sarcastic laugh that drew the same from the others.

            “Just because you were thrown into this pit like a dog,” Bane countered, “doesn’t mean you have to behave like one.”

            “Still spouting your mother’s doctrine, I see,” Aboud said. “Obviously when she was educating you, she did not tell you that your penis is good for more than just pissing.”

            Spencer laughed. “He lives next to Gola; I’m sure he’s had something of an education, Aboud. Well, at least when it comes to jacking off.”

            “Or maybe,” the Syrian continued, “he lived next to the Vulture too long, and he prefers something other than women. Be careful, Spencer,” he winked, “that proposition he has for you might be an ass fucking. Maybe you should take him up on it, him being a virgin still. Surely you can teach him more than his mother.”

            All except Spencer laughed, but their mirth was sharply curtailed when the Canadian laid down a winning hand.

            “Get lost, kid,” Spencer said, scooping up his winnings, which consisted of cigarettes. “If I come see you later, you’d better have something of value to say to me.”

            Burning with mortified anger, Bane stalked away. But he did not return to his cell, instead heading into the stepwell, not wanting to see Melisande right now with the men’s crude comments and cruel remarks about his mother ringing in his ears. He found a spot halfway down to the pool, away from any other prisoners, and sat, drawing his _shemagh_ over his head, and scowling at the water.

            If only men like Aboud knew the truth, they would certainly have no basis for their derision of him as a man with no desires. Though he did not always understand what he felt when he looked upon Melisande’s quiet beauty, he knew they were the urgings of a man, not a boy. Those yearnings contributed to his resolve these past three years to stay out of her cell, even when she had invited him in, which she had done only on a couple of occasions when she could endure Talia’s badgering no longer. But that self-imposed depravation never held at bay his wandering thoughts as he lay on his charpoy at night, listening to her gentle voice or to her breathing while she slept, smelling her. He imagined her flesh beneath his hands, those breasts that had suckled Talia, the silkiness of her dark hair, the softness of her lips. Easily he pictured the sway of her hips when she walked about her cell. Those were the nights when he fled to the stepwell, to distance himself as he was doing now, until he was able to conquer those demons.

            As Aboud’s words rang in his ears, he wondered what the Syrian and all the others would say or do if he were ever able to lie with Melisande. Perhaps then their snide remarks about his manhood would be silenced. But, as usual, he derided himself for the very thought of it. Even if Talia were not here as an obvious obstacle, surely Melisande would refuse any advances or suggestions on his part, not only because of the furor it would cause among the prison population but more so because she was a married woman, no matter how distant or unattainable Henri Ducard was to her; she still loved him deeply and yearned to be reunited with him. And Bane would certainly never entertain even the wisp of a thought about forcing himself on her as others had suggested should he gain access to her, as he had today. He was, after all, his mother’s son, and he would never dishonor her memory any more than he would dishonor Melisande. Perhaps, one day, if they were not able to escape this place, she would come to desire him.

            “What is it you want, boy?” Aaron Spencer’s question startled Bane, so deep in thought had he been that he had lost complete track of time and any sense of his surroundings.

            Bane scrambled to his feet, glanced around to take stock of whose ears were within range. “Let’s not talk here.”

            “Suit yourself, kid.”

            Bane led the way into the closest corridor, back away from the light of the shaft to where other prisoners were absent from their cells.

            Keeping his voice low, Bane said, “I heard you have antibiotics.”

            Spencer scowled. “Who told you that?”

            Bane shrugged. “Just a rumor I heard.”

            “Yeah? And what if I do? You don’t think I’m going to hand them over for that sick kid, do you?”

            “No. But maybe you would sell them to me.”

            Spencer laughed harshly. “Out of your price range, kid.”

            “How do you know? Maybe I have a way to meet your price.”

            “And how the hell would you do that?”

            “A fight.”

            Spencer had a broad face and a broad mouth, which now stretched into a cynical smile, narrowing his eyes. “How is getting the shit beat out of you going to get you money?”

            “Who says I’ll get the shit beat out of me? I bet I’m stronger than you now.”

            For a brief moment Spencer seemed to consider this, his smile fading somewhat.

            “Besides,” Bane continued, “whether I win or lose, you still get paid.”

            “How’s that?”

            “Bet heavily against me, then if I lose, you’ll make out well. If I win, I have the money to pay you for the antibiotics.”

            Spencer studied him with a new attentiveness, appearing to like what he heard. “Who’s to say anyone will fight you? Maybe no one will want to take advantage of your stupidity.”

            “I can think of at least a couple of men I’ve wronged, men with no scruples, who probably wouldn’t think twice about fighting someone they think physically inferior.”

            Spencer hesitated, rubbing his jaw in contemplation. “If you win—which you won’t—I want the whole purse. And the rest of your supply of charcoal. All of it.”

            “So you have the antibiotics then?”

            “If you win, you’ll find out, won’t you?”

            Now it was Bane’s turn to scowl.

            “Do we have a deal?” Spencer offered his hand with a crooked grin.

            Bane eyed him for a moment, understanding that he could indeed end up beaten to a pulp for absolutely nothing. Even if he won, the victory would be hollow without those antibiotics. The purse could buy him many creature comforts, but those luxuries would mean nothing if Talia succumbed to her illness.

            Finally he rallied his confidence and shook Spencer’s hand.

#

            “Are you out of your mind?” Hans asked. “No one is going to fight you. There is a code among the fighters here. Haven’t you noticed? You don’t see me challenging smaller men, do you? _Nein_ , and you never will. Same for Yemi and the others. We fight within our class, and you, Bane, aren’t in that class.”

            “I have to start somewhere.”

            “ _Ja_ , but not yet.”

            “But I’ve been sparring with you for months now.”

            “Sparring and going toe-to-toe with a man bent on taking your head off your shoulders are two different things. Don’t be a _dummkopf_.”

             Bane wheeled away from him and stood looking out of Hans’s cell into the stepwell. “You don’t understand.”

            “Then enlighten me.”

            Bane hesitated, glanced about to see if anyone was within hearing distance then turned around. “I have to fight.”

            “Why?”

            “It’s the only way I can help Henri.”

            “And how will getting your ass kicked help anyone?”

            “I need to win. I have a line on some medicine.”

            Hans viewed him with skepticism. “Who has medicine?”

            “I’d rather not say.”

            “Have you _seen_ this medicine?”

            Bane looked down. “No.”

            “So you are willing to get beaten for something that might not even exist? Don’t let yourself be taken for a fool.”

            “It’s not about me. It’s about Henri. He’s not getting better. And this is our only chance.”

            Hans sighed, hands on his hips. “Chance or not, none of these men will fight you.”

            “Then I need you to convince someone.”

            “I couldn’t convince any of them even if I asked, which I won’t do.”

            Frustration swelled in Bane, and he almost cursed the man.

            “Bane, you’re setting yourself up for a world of hurt. You’ve become too close with that child. It’s not your responsibility.”

            “Then whose is it?” he snapped. “It’s not his fault that he’s down here…or his mother’s.”

            “His mother is down here because she _chose_ to sleep with the wrong man. So now that child is her responsibility, not yours. Have you told her about this latest harebrained idea of yours?”

            “There’s no reason to unless someone accepts my challenge.”

            Hans dropped his hands from his hips, shook his head sadly, stepped toward Bane. Briefly he put a hand on his shoulder. “Your motives are admirable, if ill-conceived, Bane. But that child’s fate is out of your control. You have to learn that there are some things you just have to accept. You can’t save the world.”

            “But it’s not fair. The others used up the medicine, men who don’t deserve to live, men who have done terrible things. Henri hasn’t done anything wrong. He just got sick too late.”

            “And that’s all there is to it, boy. You can’t blame yourself for someone else’s misfortune. And you can’t feel guilty because you got better and Henri hasn’t.” Hans forced a smile. “Besides, that child could still pull through. I think you are counting your chickens before they hatch, as they say. Why mess up that pretty young face of yours for medicine the child might never need?”

            Though Bane appreciated Hans’s attempt to cheer him, he nonetheless left his cell with a heavy heart. He sat in the stepwell for a time, forlorn and hopeless. Even there he could hear Talia’s coughs, the painful sounds twisting his guts and bringing tears of utter frustration to his eyes. What could he say to her to give her hope? What had he said to his mother as her lungs filled up and she struggled for every breath?

            At last, after gathering his emotions and hiding them away, he started back to his cell. He was glad of one thing, at least—he had refrained from telling Melisande about Spencer’s alleged stash of antibiotics. Now he would not have to tell her the heartbreaking news that Talia’s salvation was forever beyond reach.

            He walked slowly, head down, moving along the cell row, racking his brain for another idea on how to acquire the drugs. So he did not notice Omar Alam leaning back against a pillar in front of Melisande’s cell until he was almost upon the man.

            Figuring the Arab was there simply to ogle Melisande, he snarled, “Get out of here.”

            Unconcerned with Bane’s menace, Alam casually straightened, his heavy-lidded eyes hard upon him.

            “Ba-ba,” Talia hoarsely called.

            “I hear no one has accepted your challenge,” Alam mocked.

            “What’s it to you?”

            A sly grin slipped across Alam’s brown, bearded face, the light of the shaft angling against his greasy black hair, which fell in spirals to his shoulders. “The others won’t fight you because you are a boy. But I don’t see a boy. I see a coward who ambushes men in the dark and kills them from behind. A coward who is overdue for a sound thrashing.”

            “And you think you are the one to give it to me?”

            “Yes.”

            Bane flashed a cold grin. “Then go tell Hans he has a match to referee after all.”


	51. Chapter 51

            “So what Omar just told me is true then?”

            Melisande’s question turned Bane as Omar Alam headed into the stepwell. She stood at the front of her cell, her attention steady upon him, a tiny vertical crease between her eyes.

            “You are going to fight?”

            He swallowed hard, tried not to be swayed by the concern on her face.

            “Ba-ba,” Talia called again, weaker.

            “I’ll be right there,” he assured then stepped as close to Melisande as the bars would allow. He stopped himself from touching her fingers where they were wrapped around the metal. In a whisper he said, “I have to fight.”

            Melisande did not lower her voice, nor hide the taint of anger. “Why?”

            “I know of someone who might have some antibiotics.”

            Her eyes widened. “Who?”

            “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I get the money to buy them. Fighting Omar is the only way.”

            “But…you have never fought before…”

            He was pleased that her immediate response was not an attempt to dissuade him. “I’ve been sparring with Hans for a while now. He’s the best fighter in the prison; you know that. I’ve been taught by the best.” He fabricated a confident grin.

            Melisande frowned. “There must be a better way. Omar will be out to maim you, not just fight you. He hasn’t forgotten about Ramzi’s death.”

            “Don’t worry. I’m stronger than he thinks.”

            Her gaze drifted back to Talia who kept quietly repeating Bane’s name, one hand reaching through the bars to his empty charpoy.

            “There has to be another way,” Melisande said, her words trailing off, her focus still upon her daughter. She frowned as if distracted by something highly unpleasant. “Of course…there _is_ another way.”

            “Melisande—”

            “Are you certain the drugs exist?”

            He grabbed her arm with such strength that she startled and stared at him. Quickly he swallowed his anger and disgust, freed her. “I’m going to fight Omar. _That_ is the only way to get those drugs.”

            His forceful gaze would not leave her. Her mouth hung slightly open in shock, and she regarded him in an odd way, as if seeing him for the first time. At last she breathed a barely detectable exhale and nodded, stepping back from the bars, turning away from him with troubled eyes.

            Bane knew he had not deterred her, that she would indeed find any means necessary to acquire that medicine if he were to fail.

#

            News of the match spread throughout the prison like a flame devouring dry paper. Bane tried to sleep in preparation for the fight, but he could not rest with Talia tossing and turning, coughing and softly crying on her charpoy. When she was awake, she repeated his name until he reached for her, though her mother tried to discourage her from disturbing him. If Talia’s illness did not keep him from sleep, then the continuous trickle of prisoners past his cell with their comments about the match did. Most were jeering, but there were a few who wished him luck, claiming Omar Alam would prove no brawler once the fists started flying.

            When the appointed time arrived late in the afternoon, Bane finished his preparatory meditation and stretches. Then, standing and taking in a long, sustaining breath, he smiled as confidently as he could at Melisande where she sat at Talia’s bedside.

            “Wish me luck.”

            The emotion on her face took him by surprise—a powerful mixture of fear, admiration, and appreciation. She seemed unable to speak, unable to move, so instead she simply smiled with a slight tremble of her lips and nodded. Perhaps she knew her voice would not carry over the noise that was already growing from the stepwell as the prison population poured into the shaft.

            “Ba-ba,” Talia weakly called.

            He hesitated, but when she turned her sweaty head on the pillow to look for him, he hurried over to the bars.

            “Where are you going?” she asked.

            “Just out into the stepwell. I won’t be gone long.”

            “Someone’s fighting?”

            Even at her tender age, she was already accustomed to the clamor that signified a match, though, of course, she had never been allowed to watch one.

            “Yes, someone’s going to fight. But when it’s over, I’ll come right back and sit with you, okay?”

            He placed a kiss upon his fingers then reached through the bars to touch them to her cheek. She managed a tiny smile, but her eyes were dull and listless.

            “Time to go, boy,” Abrams said from outside Bane’s cell.

            Bane tore himself away from the child and marched resolutely out, his expression set, his fingers twitching, his knife left behind.

            When he stepped into the shaft, he staggered to a halt. Normally any bout drew a sizable crowd, but today it appeared that every prisoner in the pit was there. The sight strangled his breath. As he was spotted, men called to him, some laughing at him, a couple calling encouragement.

            “Don’t let ‘em see you sweat, kid,” Abrams rumbled in his ear then moved past to find a vantage point.

            Bane looked to the bottom of the shaft. Omar Alam was already there next to the pool, stripped of everything but his ragged pants. Hans also awaited, for he would officiate the match, a duty that required safeguarding the money collected for the purse and to break up the fight should either combatant decide to step outside the rules and try to kill the other. With this many men watching, the purse would indeed be considerable, for everyone had to pitch in the equivalent of one _paise_ per man.

            As he started downward, a roar went up from the spectators, fists shaking in the air, feet stomping in a jagged rhythm against the stones. Bane thought of the Coliseum in Rome and the gladiators. At first the din unnerved him a bit, but as he drew closer to the pool he channeled the primal sounds as a way to fire his adrenaline. He focused on Omar Alam as the wiry man impatiently paced back and forth, occasionally glancing Bane’s way. Bane was vaguely aware of the craze of wagering going on around him. Most were giving him long odds, and he berated himself for not slipping Abrams something to wager for him. With those kind of odds, winning would bring him a windfall beyond the purse.

            When he reached the bottom of the shaft, some of the commotion began to trail off. Now the voices that had been calling out odds and stakes turned to bolstering the confidence of the fighters, a blur of different languages. Bane did not try to decipher any of it. Instead he stripped down to his pants.

            The pool took up two thirds of the shaft’s base. The remaining third was an area where normally a community table and benches sat, a place for men to eat or play a variety of card and board pastimes in the fall of weak light from above. A large cauldron and a barrel were usually there as well, the former to boil clothing in, the latter holding the wood used to fuel the cauldron’s fire (a supply kept safe from thieves after one such inmate had gotten his hand chopped off as punishment for his crime; theft from individuals was transgression enough, but to steal from the whole was considered to be far beyond the pale). Now these things had been pushed into the mouth of the corridor leading away from the pool, not allowing the fighters any improvised weapons of wood to be snatched from the barrel, and providing a relatively spacious area for the combatants where none of the spectators were allowed to roost.

            For the first time Bane noticed Doctor Assad next to the cauldron, his expression unreadable, his arms crossed, hands hidden in his sleeves. Behind him, where light from the shaft met darkness, Bane caught the slight blur of another prisoner. Crazy Saul.

            When Bane was ready, Hans raised his arms to gain silence.

            “All right, gentlemen.” Hans waved the combatants toward him where he stood in the center. Only for a second did he flick a look of inspiration at Bane before he continued, “You both know the rules: no hair-pulling, no biting, no eye-gouging, and no kneeing.”

            Bane nodded, his stare boring into Alam, who did not flinch. The Arab was perhaps an inch shorter than he, but the more squat nature of the man’s build made it difficult to determine who was superior in weight. Bane did not know how much experience Alam had in bare-knuckle fighting before his incarceration; he only knew of Alam fighting in the pit over minor squabbles, never an arranged match here in the shaft, so he was unsure of what to expect from the man. Yet whatever his history, the Arab certainly had more practice than he.

            The moment Hans stepped back out of the way, the shaft erupted into chaotic shouts from the spectators, the stone walls reverberating, unable to absorb the cacophony, instead funneling it downward to overwhelm Bane. It initially stunned him, and Alam took full advantage of this, cracking a blow to his jaw that staggered him sideways. The inmates roared with wild delight.

            Before Bane could recover his balance and senses, Alam followed up with a flurry of punches that drove him backward. Bane could do little more than hold his forearms up to try to deflect the attack away from his head. Panic flashed through him. His back slammed up against the stone wall, the blows still falling. The spectators’ calls and cries blurred into a mere humming background beneath his grunts and raspy breathing. He realized that his eyes had been closed since the first punch. When he opened them, he was looking downward at Alam’s bare feet where they were braced apart. Downward…where there were no flying fists…

            Bane pushed back the panic and, with sudden agility, dropped below Alam’s guard to snake beyond the Arab’s flank, away from the wall. As Alam wheeled, Bane’s left struck the man’s jaw, the power behind his initial blow taking his opponent by surprise, wiping the confident fury from his bearded face. Bane used that instant to regroup, to rebalance, to focus, his guard now up, his shoulders slightly rounded, drawing his power inward, making himself a smaller target. Alam settled as well, both of them waiting for an opening, feinting in and out in an effort to draw the other within reach.

            “Take your time,” Hans had instructed Bane earlier. “Use your age to your advantage. He will tire faster than you. Wait him out.”

            The spectators, however, were not patient. As the fighters danced about, trading only stray, probing blows, the inmates cursed them and occasionally threw things to distract them and allow an opening to be exploited. Bane was able to stay focused through the raining debris, but Alam was not as unflinching. When a banana peel slapped against the back of the Arab’s head, he made the instinctive mistake of turning slightly as if in search of the culprit. Bane pounced, landing blows to Alam’s face and chest. Alam staggered back, blood flowing from his nose, the sight of it whipping the crowd into a frenzy. The Arab’s foot came down on the banana peel, slipped out from under him. He crashed backward. Bane stopped himself from leaping on the man, instead waited as Alam scrambled back to his feet. Though seemingly surprised by such sportsmanship, the Arab renewed the bout with little hesitation. He swiped at the blood, smearing his cheek, spitting. Then he charged.

            Alam’s speed astonished Bane. He had no time to defend or get out of the way as Alam slammed headfirst into his chest and drove him backward. But this time Bane retreated only a couple of steps, absorbing the man’s energy, remaining on his feet, and wrapping his arms around his opponent’s torso, locking him close so he could not land any punches. Realizing the vulnerable position he had put himself in, Alam struggled to break Bane’s hold while they stumbled back and forth in a weird waltz, ragged fingernails digging for a hold on flesh. Bane used the moment to gather his strength, to lean into Alam and make him bear his weight as well as his own, tiring the man.

            Bane freed up one of his arms and, with lightning speed, delivered two body blows to Alam’s mid-section, driving out his air and his ability to stand. The man’s knees collapsed, and they fell heavily. Bane’s full weight smashed atop Alam, his head making a sharp sound against the stone pavement. For an instant Bane thought the man unconscious, for he went limp. But as Bane started to push himself off of Alam, the Arab came to life. Propelling himself with hands and feet, Alam launched himself at Bane, and they tumbled together close to the edge of the pool, rolling over twice. They grappled for an advantage, Alam now bleeding from a cut on his forehead, each trying to pin the other. Bane nearly succeeded, but Alam bashed him with a head-butt, and constellations swirled before Bane’s eyes. His opponent shoved him over onto his back and landed several punches, bloodying Bane’s nose and splitting his lips. Bane coughed and spat blood into Alam’s face, momentarily blinding the man who cursed, swiping at his eyes. Getting one hand free, Bane landed a blow that knocked the Arab off of him.

            They regained their feet, both swaying, guards up. One of Alam’s eyes started to swell an angry red. As Hans had taught him, Bane kept his feet moving, though they now seemed like two bricks attached to his ankles. His nose burned, and his mouth ached, but he pushed aside the discomfort, watching Alam closely for any weakness to exploit. The Arab flashed a couple of jabs at him. Bane ducked beneath them, able to deliver one quick blow to his opponent’s left kidney before darting back out of reach. Alam had lost some of the spring in his step; he was tiring. Bane feinted right, drawing Alam with him, fooling him into more swings that did not connect while Bane loosed another single, targeted blow, this time to the gut, driving out Alam’s breath, doubling him over. Like a sledge, Bane struck him over the head, dropping him onto his belly.

            Alam braced himself halfway up with his hands, but Bane kicked him in the side, knocking him onto his back and almost into the pool. He leapt on the Arab, driving the air from his lungs, pinning his arms beneath his knees. His advantageous position filled him with fresh energy, and his blows fell without hesitation. Alam tried to twist from beneath him, but what strength remained was soon destroyed by Bane’s onslaught. All of Bane’s anger from his earlier conversation with Spencer and Aboud, all of his frustration and anxiety over Talia’s illness swelled up and engulfed him like a wave, flowing through his muscles, propelling his fists, blinding him, numbing him.

            “That’s enough, Bane! Bane! Enough!”

            Someone dragged him away from the senseless man. Instinctively Bane struggled, ready to strike whomever interfered.

            “He’s out.”

            Bane recognized Hans’s voice, but the adrenaline still gripped him, and he jerked away from the German, fists clenched, lungs heaving with the remains of his anger. He paced in a circle like a caged tiger, letting the energy slowly dissipate. It was only then that he realized how quiet the shaft was compared to minutes ago. No shouts, no calls, no profanity. Just a buzz of voices, none of which he could understand, nor did he try. He knew that sound, though—the sound of lost wagers, the sound of stunned men. The only joyous noise came from the handful who had risked betting on him.

            Doctor Assad bent over Omar Alam, but Bane paid no attention, did not care if the Arab was unconscious or dead. Hans retrieved water from the pool to splash on Alam’s bloody face. Bane continued to pace, though slower now, his heart rate dropping, the cool air of the pit quickly drying his sweat. He looked up at the dozens of faces, few having left the shaft, as if too stunned to do so. Up and up he searched until he saw Aaron Spencer, the Canadian standing near the top of the stepwell, wearing the same disbelieving expression as so many others. Bane held his gaze until Spencer gave a slight nod then headed in the direction of his cell.

            When Omar Alam began to respond to the doctor, most of the spectators started to drift off, murmuring to one another, some glancing over their shoulders at the fighters one last time before disappearing into the corridors. A feeling of exaltation washed over Bane, and he wanted to shout at all of them, taunt them, curse them. They had come here to see a boy get beaten, perhaps as a payback for his privileged relationship with Melisande. But he knew they now went away with a far different image of him in their heads. No one would mistake him for a boy after today.

            At last coming to a stop near the pool, he scooped up a handful of water to wash the blood from his face as Hans approached.

            The German’s smile was proud but tempered. “Well done.”

            “Give me the purse.”

            His abruptness seemed to surprise Hans, but the big man nonetheless brought forth from beneath his tunic a small pouch which contained the winnings. The bag’s heft thrilled Bane, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. Remembering himself, he softened his tone, said, “Thanks for all your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.” He loosened the bag’s drawstring. “Take what you think is fair. I owe you.”

            Hans closed his hand over the pouch. “No, I have a feeling you are going to need all of that. And I won’t take money from a child.” He winked. “From Henri, I mean. Now you best be on your way. I’m sure your family is waiting on pins and needles to see if you are still alive.” He grinned and patted his shoulder before turning back to Alam.

            The Arab was now sitting up, mumbling in his native tongue in answer to Assad’s examining questions. But as Bane walked past to collect his clothing, the man’s swollen eyes lifted to him, and in their black depths Bane saw a promise, a promise that this feud was not over.


	52. Chapter 52

            None of the men whom Bane passed on his way back to his cell spoke a congratulatory word, but neither did they deride him. Some appeared angry, no doubt over losing bets, while others simply met his gaze with something close to bemusement, a couple of them shaking their heads as if disbelieving what they had seen. Abrams stood not far from their cells, leaning against a pillar, his usual surly look softened by vindication.

            “Not bad, kid,” he said as Bane passed.

            Bane allowed a small, proud smile.

            Melisande called to him the minute he was within sight. Relief returned color to her face where she stood near her door, Talia in her arms. With one hand the child held the horse that Bane had carved for her a year ago, pressed between her shoulder and her mother. At the sound of his name, Talia slowly turned her head, as if the effort took every ounce of her strength. Her eyes widened when she saw the damage to his face.

            “Ba-ba, you’re hurt!”

            As he came up to the bars, Melisande’s horrified gaze trailed over his face, and he could only imagine the frightful sight he presented. “Are you all right?” she asked. “What happened? No one would tell me.”

            “Ba-ba—”

            “I’m all right.” He reached through the bars to take Talia’s feverish hand as she coughed. “Just some bumps and bruises.” He smiled with newfound vigor. “I won.”

            “Ba-ba was fighting?” Talia asked her mother.

            “Yes,” he said. “And look what I won: a whole bag of money!”

            Talia’s eyes widened, for even at her young age she knew the value of currency in any form in the pit. “What will you buy, Ba-ba?”

            “He already bought it.” Aaron Spencer’s voice turned them all. The Canadian strolled toward them, a half smile cocking his lips.

            Bane was surprised to see the man. He had lived in dread that Spencer would either renege on their bargain or perhaps did not even have the antibiotics after all. Now the man stopped in front of him, carrying a bucket with his left hand and, in his right, a small bottle. The latter he held up in front of Melisande.

            “I believe these are for you. That is, once Bane hands over his bag of treasure.”

            Eying Spencer, Bane detected no deceit in the man, and so he displayed the pouch. Spencer raised the empty bucket, and Bane dropped the money inside. The Canadian smiled and jiggled the bottle, rattling the pills it contained. To Bane’s surprise, Melisande did not take the drugs. Instead she looked to him, as if to ask permission, or perhaps she simply could not believe her eyes.

            “What’s that, Mama?”

            Bane nodded to Melisande, and she quickly enveloped the bottle in her hand and pressed it to her heart.

            Tears swam in her eyes. “It’s medicine, baby. For you. That’s why Bane was fighting—to win this for you.”

            Talia touched her mother’s hand around the bottle, resting her head against Melisande’s shoulder once again. “Now I get better?”

            “Yes, _habibi_.”

            “Thank you, Ba-ba,” she said near a whisper before the croupy cough attacked again.

            “You’re welcome. Now let your mama get you a drink so you can take one of those pills.”

            Spencer slipped the money beneath his clothing and held up the bucket. “I’m sure you won’t mind me coming into your cell for the charcoal. Wouldn’t want you to forget where you stashed some of it, eh?”

            The barb did not affect Bane, for he could think of little else except Talia recovering from her illness. Quietly he asked, “How many pills are there?”

            “Ten days’ worth.”

            Bane nodded, hoped it would be enough.

            “Now that charcoal?”

            By the time Spencer left with every brick of fuel Bane had, filling his bucket as well as one of Bane’s buckets, Talia was back under her blankets, having swallowed the first dose. She smiled at him, this time with hope brightening her eyes.

            “Thank you, Ba-ba.”

            He reached through the bars to place his hand over hers. “You’ve already thanked me once. That’s enough. Now you should rest and let that medicine work, yes?”

            She nodded.

            Melisande, sitting on the edge of the charpoy, tucked the blankets snuggly around the child as she asked, “Why did Spencer take your charcoal after you already gave him the money?”

            “It was part of the deal.”

            “But that was all of your fuel. The resupply isn’t for weeks yet.”

            Bane shrugged. “I’ll be all right.”

            “You must take some of ours.”

            “Never in life, not with Henri being sick.”

            “Then you will at least let me cook for you.”

            “I can eat my rations cold. It’s not forever.”

            “Bane.” Melisande tried to manufacture a stern look, but her relief over what he had done for them would not allow it. She took his hand and tearfully said, “You must at least let me do that much for you. Please.”

            Sheepish, he looked away from her, to Talia’s happy face.

            Melisande kissed his hand, pressed it to her cheek, her eyes momentarily closed, squeezing out stray tears which wet his flesh. “Thank you,” she said in a desperate whisper.

            “Mama.” Talia stirred with concern. “Why are you crying?”

            Melisande gave a strangled laugh and freed Bane, the tears shimmering. “I’m crying because I’m happy.” She caressed her daughter’s cheek. “I’m happy because now I have medicine to make my baby well again. Thanks to Bane.”

            “Did you hurt the bad man, Ba-ba?” Talia asked.

            “No worse than he hurt me.” Bane winked. “He’ll live.”

            “Who was it?”

            “Omar Alam.”

            “I don’t like him. He says mean things to Mama.”

            “Well, after today I don’t think he will say those things to her anymore. Now…enough chatter. You must rest, and soon you will feel better.”

#

            Talia responded well to the antibiotics. Her fever broke within twenty-four hours after her first dose. Bane stayed in his cell the day following the fight in order to monitor her progress. Doing so gave him time to nurse his own aches and pains, and to hide his wounds from most of the other prisoners. Occasionally through the day, when inmates passed by his cell, some would toss him a curious or wary glance, some talking among themselves in quiet tones. Bane’s burgeoning self-confidence made it easy to meet each man’s eye with a challenging spark. Even Gola was unusually subdued, not making one snide comment all day. Abrams, on the other hand, went about his business with little change in his usual indifferent attitude.

            After three days Talia was out of her charpoy and playing once again, though she tired quickly and napped frequently. By the fifth day she was begging to go outside her cell with Bane, but her mother insisted she stay inside until she had finished the round of antibiotics. The cough still dogged her and kept them all awake at intervals throughout the nights, but within two weeks even the cough was nearly gone.

            By then the monsoon season had begun, and rain poured into the shaft day after day. The water from the heavens was initially welcomed by the prison population, gathered in a wide array of vessels left sitting out in the shaft, to be used for a variety of purposes. Many inmates stripped off their clothes and used the monsoonal deluge as natural showers, an uncomfortable display for Melisande who did her best to shield Talia from the intermittent parade of naked men past their cell. Of course, when Bane was not there, the more crass prisoners lingered outside her door to taunt Melisande with lewd displays. But the men quickly scattered whenever Bane returned. Now and then the bolder, defiant ones left only after trading blows with Bane or after he had threatened their genitals with his knife.

            One particularly uncomfortable evening, with the rains unceasing for several days, Bane sat on his charpoy in the dark, cocooned in his blankets and trying to conceal his shivering as he talked with Melisande and Talia. From the shaft came the monotonous noise of rain rattling against the stones of the stepwell. His brazier, like the stepwell, sat empty and cold, and he imagined Aaron Spencer curled up in his blankets like a contented cat in front of his well-stocked brazier, far removed from the bone-penetrating deluge. He cursed the man.

            “Ba-ba,” Talia said, “aren’t you cold?”

            “No.”

            Melisande said, “I wish you would take some of our charcoal, at least for tonight.”

            Talia left her warm spot next to her mother where she sat in front of their glowing brazier, wrapped in blankets. She scurried onto her charpoy and reached through the bars, her fingers seeking a way beneath Bane’s blankets.

            “What are you doing?” he laughed.

            “Oh! Your hand! It’s so cold.”

            Bane pulled away from her and tucked his hands into his armpits. “I’m fine.”

            “Mama, he’s shivering.”

            “Let him shiver,” Gola called in a groggy, cranky voice. “Serves him right for being stupid enough to give away his fuel. Now shut the fuck up over there; I’m trying to sleep.”

            Bane thought he heard Abrams chuckle from his charpoy.

            “Bane,” Melisande said. “If you aren’t going to take some of our charcoal, then at least come sit with us for a while so you can warm up.”

            “Well, shit,” Gola said. “I’m feeling pretty damn cold myself.”

            Now Abrams laughed aloud.

            “Yes, Ba-ba,” Talia said, bouncing on her knees on her charpoy, “come sit with us.”

            “I’m fine here.”

            “No, you’re not; you’re cold,” Talia badgered. “Please come sit with us. We’re warm. Feel my hand.” She thrust her palm against his cheek. “See.”

            “Doctor Assad is probably asleep,” he insisted.

            “Then wake him up,” Talia said.

            “No.”

            “Then I will.”

            Bane laughed. “How will you do that? You can’t get out of your cell.”

            Talia hopped off the charpoy and hurried to the door. There she yelled, “Doctor Assad! Come bring our key!”

            Melisande and Bane both tried to hush her, but she kept shouting for the doctor. Her noise immediately met with threats from nearby prisoners, men made even more unpleasant lately by the continuous gloom of the monsoon. Melisande rushed across the cell to pull her daughter back toward the brazier, a hand over her mouth. Talia giggled and cried out against her mother’s efforts.

            “All right,” Bane said. “All right. I’ll go ask him, but only if you hush your noise.”

            Orange light from the brazier flashed against Talia’s grin and bronzed her face.

            Assad had not yet retired. Instead he sat at his small table, reading by candlelight, the pages of his book curling in the dank air. When he heard Bane’s request, he peered over his reading glasses with an unhappy lift of his eyebrows.

            “If it’s warmth you desire, you should share my fire, not theirs.”

            “If I don’t go back there, Henri will have the whole prison up in arms from his shouting.”

            Assad sighed and pushed back his chair, setting aside his glasses and shaking his head. “I should know by now not to talk sense to you.”

            “Come now, Doctor,” Bane tried to joke, “it’s not like I’ll be spending the night in their cell. I’ll bring the key back as soon as Talia goes to sleep.”

            Assad grunted skeptically and turned to retrieve the key from a locked cabinet at the back of his cell. “Someday, Bane, I fear that child will be the death of you.”


	53. Chapter 53

            Talia was waiting for Bane at her door, her father’s blanket around her. Her infectious smile filled Bane with bottomless gratitude for her recovery.

            Once he was inside her cell with the door locked behind him, Talia grabbed his hand and towed him over to the brazier in triumph. Melisande smiled up at him.

            “Sit here.” Talia directed him to a spot next to her mother. “See, we got blankets from your charpoy, so now we have even more.”

            “No,” he smiled. “You sit between us, so you will be warmest. We don’t want your sickness to come back, do we?”

            Happily Talia obeyed, and Bane settled next to her on a woven mat, draping his two blankets over top of theirs so they were all snuggled together in a nest of delicious warmth.

            “Here.” Melisande handed him the cup of weak tea that she and Talia had been sharing. “Finish it.” When he started to decline, she shook her head at him, then smiled when he accepted.

            As soon as he drained the cup and set it aside, Talia crawled into his lap, her irrepressibility causing him to laugh. Her shift left a gaping void between Bane and Melisande, but as he wrapped his strong arms around the child, Melisande settled against him and rearranged the blankets to maximize their body heat. He no longer shivered.

            For a long moment they said nothing, staring at the brazier, the hiss of the coals barely detectable over the noise of the rain behind them in the shaft. Bane smiled, feeling a pure contentment that three years ago he would never have thought possible. He kissed the top of Talia’s head.

            “Ba-ba,” Talia broke the spell at last, speaking softly, suddenly serious. “Why were those men so mean to Mama today?”

            Bane gave her a gentle squeeze and kissed her again. “When men are unhappy, they get mean.”

            “You’re not mean.”

            He considered. “That’s because I’m happy.”

            “You are?”

            “Yes, and you know why?”

            “Why?”

            “Because I have you, you and your mama.”

            Talia smiled at him. “And we have you.”

            “That’s right.”

            She squirmed, settled tighter against him.

            “Ba-ba?”

            “Yes?”

            “How come those men didn’t have clothes on today?”

            “They wanted the rain to wash them. It feels good.”

            “Did you take your clothes off to wash, too?”

            “Not today, but I have on other days.”

            Talia’s lips twisted in thought, and Bane could tell she had been pondering these mysteries all day. She often saved up her inquiries until the evening when she would ask the same questions of him that she had asked of her mother earlier in the day. Now she stirred amidst the blankets, peering downward beneath them.

            “What are you doing?” he laughed.

            “I’m looking.”

            “For what?”

            “To see if I have one like those bad men. But it’s too dark; I can’t tell.”

            Bane and Melisande comprehended at the exact same moment, and they both reached for Talia to shush her before she could blurt anything more. Talia blinked at them in surprise, Bane’s hand over her mouth, her mother’s alarmed face close to hers.

            “What?” Talia said, muffled by Bane’s palm, sudden concern furrowing her brow.

            “You must never talk of such things,” Melisande whispered.

            “Why not?”

            Melisande glanced at Bane, stammered, “It’s not safe.”

            “Why not?”

            Bane slowly removed his hand from Talia’s mouth. He had never anticipated that she would broach such a topic at this early age. Using a tone meant to scare, he said, “If those bad men knew you were different…down there…they would try to hurt you.”

            “Why?”

            “Because they don’t like anyone who’s different. That’s why your mother doesn’t want you to leave your cell without me. And that’s why you have to keep this a secret. It’s the only way to stay safe. And it’s the only way you can keep coming into my cell or visiting the doctor. Do you understand?”

            The gravity of his words caused her to shrink against him, drawing the blanket close. Her glance reached toward Gola, his snores from behind the shielding blanket now growing louder than the monsoon. Then she looked to her mother, and Bane knew Melisande regretted having to use terror tactics to safeguard her child.

            “It’s all right, _habibi_ ,” Melisande assured with a wavering smile. “We won’t let anyone hurt you. But you must promise me and Bane that you will never talk about this to anyone.”

            Solemnly she nodded, her eyes appearing even larger in her frightened face, and whispered, “Promise.”

            Melisande cupped Talia’s tapered chin in her hand and kissed her. Bane could smell Melisande’s fear.

            Talia’s lower lip jutted out, and she looked sadly downward. Bane hugged her tighter.

            “No long faces tonight,” he said. “What if I tell you a story?”

            Talia perked up. “What kind of story?”

            He teased her by withholding his answer for a long moment, instead staring up at the ceiling as if in thought. “A story about a lost boy who goes in search of his father.”

            “Does it have a happy ending?”

            He looked at Melisande’s relieved expression and smiled, “Of course.”

#

            When Bane awoke on his charpoy, deep in the night, he knew it was not the rain that had disturbed his rest, nor was it Talia; the child lay asleep on the other side of the bars—he knew her breathing patterns as well as he knew her face. But what he did not detect was Melisande’s even respiration. He listened, pushing aside the drone of the rain, which had slackened since he had returned to his cell. Then he heard her.

            Immediately Bane left his charpoy, making not a sound so Talia would remain asleep. He padded to the front of his cell, softly spoke Melisande’s name so he would not startle her. She was just on the other side of the bars, huddled in the front corner, and when she heard him, her quiet sobs abruptly halted.

            “What’s the matter?” he whispered as he sank to his haunches. “Why are you out of bed?”

            She ran a sleeve across her face as she sniffed back her tears. “I didn’t want to wake…Henri.” A stray sob escaped her.

            Bane reached through the bars, took her hand. “Did you have a nightmare?”

            “No…I haven’t been able to fall asleep. I just keep thinking about what…Henri said.”

            “What do you mean?” He sat and leaned back against the front bars, closed his other hand around hers to warm it.

            She hesitated and moved as close as she could to him, lowering her voice even more. “I just don’t know if I can do it.”

            “Do what?”

            Melisande paused in frustration then broke with convention, saying, “She’s already asking those questions. I just don’t know how I can make her understand why we have to deny who…what she really is. She’s only going to keep asking things. As she grows up, it will be even harder to disguise her. And it seems so cruel to do so, to not let her be herself.”

            “I know, but what choice do we have?”

            “If she stayed always in our cell, like I do, then—”

            “Do you really want her to live that way?”

            She squeezed his hand. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, let alone my own child.”

            “Then we need to stay the course. Besides, you could be worrying about something that may never happen. I mean, one day we’ll escape, maybe one day soon.”

            With little hope, she said, “But only two men have tried to make the climb in the past year. It seems so hopeless; what if no one ever tries again?”

            “I will.”

            “Bane, no—”

            “I’ve just been waiting, until I’m strong, until I had grown more. And I am, I have.” He paused. “Truth be told, I could have climbed before now, but…well, I guess I’ve been here so long and…and, well, it’s been easier to be here because of you and Talia.”

            Melisande gave a small, worried gasp at the sound of her daughter’s name, for neither had dared even whisper it since the day she had revealed her secret. But he knew she enjoyed hearing it as much as he did because she squeezed his hand again, sniffed back the last of her tears.

            “This is my home,” he continued, almost to himself, speaking words he could not curtail, admitting to himself as much as to her the realization that had come to him over the past year. “I know that probably sounds strange to you—”

            “No. I understand. This is all you have ever known. This is where your mother was.”

            “I guess I’ve been a bit afraid to leave. Maybe that’s really why I haven’t tried the climb again. But, since I fought Omar…well, I feel confident now.”

            “Why would you be afraid to leave? You have always talked about finding your father. The story you told tonight—that was about you, about your hope.”

            “Yes, it is my hope, but…well, who says it will really happen? Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he doesn’t even want to know me. Maybe he’s forgotten about my mother; it’s been so long.”

            “Oh, Bane, don’t think that. Of course he hasn’t forgotten her. And he would want to know about you. You can’t give up on that.”

            “But if I escaped, if _we_ escaped, I might find him, but I would lose you and Talia.”

            She turned to face him and reached her other hand through the bars to clutch his hands. “That’s not true. After all we’ve been through together, the three of us, we would never forget you.”

            “But you have a family…your husband…”

            “You are a part of that family, Bane. Of course you could come with us, wherever we go, but I assumed you wouldn’t want to because of your father.”

            He shifted to face her as well, the dying embers from her brazier allowing him to see the curve of her cheek, the corner of her eye, their hands still joined. “I do want to find my father. Of course. But, like you said, after all we have been through together…”

            “Perhaps my husband will be able to help you find your father.”

            “But you said your father exiled him?”

            “That was over three years ago. So much could have changed by now. And you don’t know my Henri.” She smiled, the tears long gone now. “He will do anything I ask of him, even if it means defying my father again. When he finds out we are alive, that he has a child…” She touched Bane’s cheek. “When I tell him all that you have done for us, he would never deny you.”

            Her caress made him smile as did her change in mood from deep sorrow to hope. The thought of being able to remain with her and Talia, and the idea of Henri Ducard making possible a reunion with his father filled him with new hope, new strength, new resolve. Perhaps now was indeed the time to attempt the climb once again. This pit did not have to remain his home. He could find a new home, a _real_ home, beyond the cold shaft. Even if he was unable to find his father, he would not be alone in that mysterious, frightening world beyond these subterranean walls. He would have a family.


	54. Chapter 54

            Bane waited for the weather to break before he would attempt the climb. He wanted dry walls to lessen the chance of slipping or losing a handhold. Another week dragged by before nature cooperated. During that time, he confided only in Hans until the evening before when he revealed his plans to Doctor Assad as well as Melisande. They both tried to change his mind, but this time he noticed that Melisande’s attempts were not as spirited as before his previous climb, no doubt due to Talia’s recent unsettling questions. Talia had been napping during their discussion—purposeful timing on Bane’s part—so the child knew nothing until the day of his climb.

            “Where are you going, Ba-ba?” she asked when he left his cell that morning.

            He stopped at her door where Melisande already stood to wish him luck. She had hoped to keep Bane’s plan from the child if at all possible, though once the chanting started in the shaft Talia would know someone was climbing and would run to the front of her cell to watch. Now she hurried to stand beside her mother, reaching a hand through the bars to grab Bane’s pant leg to anchor him until he answered her question. She smiled at him, no doubt ready to request yet again that she be allowed to accompany him wherever he was bound, but her happy expression quickly fell to ruin when she saw the gravity upon their faces.

            “Where are you going, Ba-ba? Are you going to fight another bad man?”

            Bane frowned at Melisande who lifted Talia onto her hip. Again the child reached for him, this time tweaking his nose.

            “Not today,” he said.

            “Can I come with you?”

            “Not yet.”

            “When?”

            He took her hand and kissed it. “Maybe soon.”

            Bane’s attention returned to Melisande, waiting for her to tell Talia the truth or to give him approval to do so. The familiar anxiety was there in her brown eyes as it had been when he had first made the climb. She appeared unable to speak, trying desperately to maintain her composure in front of Talia. She nodded her permission.

            “I’m going to climb the shaft,” he said. “So you must promise to cheer for me.”

            “You are?” Talia burst out with excitement, her gaze reaching over his shoulder toward the shaft. “Can I climb, too?”

            He chuckled, her energy easing some of his trepidation. “When I get to the top, I’ll throw down ropes so everyone can climb out.”

            Talia gasped and looked at her mother whose smile fell short of her daughter’s elation. Then, for a brief moment, Talia deflated, saying, “Then we’ll come back down?”

            “No, _habibi_ ,” Melisande found her voice. “We will look for your father. Remember how we talked about him last night?”

            “Papa?”

            “That’s right.”

            “Oh…” Talia settled thoughtfully, her fingers playing with Melisande’s _shemagh_ , her other hand still in Bane’s grip.

            “So,” he said, brightening for her sake. “Will you cheer for me as I climb?”

            “Yes,” she said solemnly, her attention again drifting toward the shaft. “The other men fall down.”

            “Yes, I’m afraid they did.”

            “Don’t fall down, Ba-ba.”

            “I won’t as long as you cheer for me. Remember the chant I taught you?”

            Her face scrunched in concentration as she tried to recall the words.

            Bane chuckled again. “I’m sure your mama will be happy to refresh your memory. Now I have to be off; here comes Hans looking for me.”

            “Bane.” Melisande impulsively reached for his arm, no longer able to mask the fear. “You don’t have to do this.”

            Hiding his own apprehension, he kissed Talia’s hand and released her, then smoothly pried away Melisande’s hand, smiled at her. “Yes, I do.” From beneath his shirt, he drew his knife and slipped it through the bars to her. “Keep this for me…until I see you again.”

            Hans said nothing, waiting just down the cell row, his expression set. Gola rose from his charpoy and limped to his door, silently watching. Of course he would refrain from any malicious words today since Bane could very well be his liberator. Abrams, too, left his bed, heading into the stepwell. Word would spread in an instant, flashing down each corridor, every level.

            Bane offered Talia and Melisande one last smile, but it must not have been convincing because Talia softly said, “Don’t fall, Ba-ba.”

            As if to counter her daughter’s words, Melisande murmured, “Good luck.” Tears trembled in the corners of her beautiful eyes.

            Bane forced himself away from them.

            As he circled the shaft, heading to where the rope awaited, he thought of his conversation with the doctor last night.

            “Don’t try to deny your fear,” Assad had cautioned when he heard the bravado in Bane’s tone. “Fear can be a valuable ally.”

            “How?”

            “Fear heightens the senses, makes you more aware of potential mistakes in judgment. It is the over-confident who move too quickly or view the shaft as something less formidable than it is. Fear makes you respect your opponent; it gives you the proper perspective. It reminds you of what is truly at stake—not just escape, but your very life. Do you understand?”

            Though troubled by Assad’s words, Bane had nodded, and he replayed them now as Hans tied the rope around his torso. The hemp was still damp from the rains. “Easier for me to grip,” Hans promised. Bane hoped so, though his intention, of course, was not to need Hans.

            Men hurried into the shaft from all directions. Not the numbers that had gathered for his fight with Omar Alam, but he knew the higher he climbed, the more the crowd would grow. And the louder the chant would be. The ascension to the top was a long one, and men would take turns giving voice to the chant, for no one had the strength to maintain the incantation for the climber’s entire journey (though many such journeys were often woefully short).

            As before, his first obstacle was the ledge of rock that ran the circumference of the shaft above the stepwell, but this was conquered far easier now that he was so much taller than three years ago. From there he paused for one last look back toward Melisande’s cell. She was still at her door, Talia in her arms.

            “Climb, Ba-ba, climb!” The child’s hopeful words came sharply across the distance, giving him a boost of determination.

            Briefly he scanned the faces of the watching inmates, men like Assad, Yemi, Greyson, and Abrams who looked on with keen interest. A couple dozen here so far. Wagering had already begun. Of course there was a variety of scenarios upon which to gamble: How high would he climb? Would he actually reach the top? Would he at least make it farther than the last time? And then there was the simplest of bets: Live or die?

            Among the spectators, Bane felt one stare in particular, followed its weight to the source: Omar Alam. He stood halfway around the shaft, his dark eyes aglow with hate, a small, enigmatic grin amidst his beard. Yes, today would be a good day for Alam no matter the outcome of the climb—if Bane succeeded, then Alam would be free; if he failed, Alam could gloat over yet another of Bane’s failures. Yet there was something even more malignant than usual in the Arab’s gaze, something that struck an instinctive chord of fear in Bane, a warning.

            Bane scowled at the man and pried his attention away, his focus now fully upon the shaft and the monumental task before him. Various prisoners called encouragement to him. He smiled grimly at the realization that today, at least for this moment, he was no one’s true enemy, perhaps not even Omar’s. Momentarily Bane closed his eyes, breathed deeply, allowing the cleansing breath deep into his lungs, then slowly exhaled, relaxation flowing down into his limbs, into his feet, calming the twitch of his fingers. Then he opened his eyes and began to climb.

            The first one hundred feet passed below him with little effort, an ease that surprised and pleased him, yet he cautioned himself against over-confidence, harkening back to the doctor’s words. He kept his gaze always upward, recalled the painful price he had paid for glancing downward during the previous climb. Even now he remembered with ease the height to which he had ascended three years ago, recalled the specific spot that had been his undoing. He stared at that location, still far above him, used that as a goal, that before the ultimate goal of the shaft’s opening, a strategy he had developed last night as he lay awake—to break the climb into increments of one hundred feet, not to think about the top until the final one hundred.

            His handholds were strong, his feet—bare this time for better grip—sure upon the outcroppings. Now that the first one hundred feet were past, the trembling in his limbs from adrenaline had calmed. Later it would return, he knew, once fatigue shouldered its way in, but for now he used his fresh strength to make steady, economic progress. He squinted against the filtered light pouring down upon him. The day’s cloudiness kept the shaft cool. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine standing above ground, the day—even in its gloominess—dazzling his eyes. Would he be able to tolerate it?

            “ _Deshi, deshi! Basara, basara_!”

            By the time he reached the spot where he had fallen last time, the chant from below had gained in volume and numbers. They could see that this was not a boy who climbed now. He heard their hopes in those two words, a fullness that bespoke far more than inspiration—they told of the pain suffered by everyone who shouted the words, they told of dreams, they told of planned revenge or redemption once freedom was achieved, of new beginnings, of murderous ends. Somewhere amidst those voices he imagined that he could dissimilate Melisande’s and Talia’s voices. Yet did Talia even understand that for which she cheered? At her age, he certainly had not comprehended a world beyond the pit. Did she have some vague image of her father in her mind—as he did of his own father—something of specific substance to focus on instead of the unimaginable world of light and warmth? Or were her shouts simply for his safety? Physical pain was a tactile reality that she, even at her young age, understood far better than the mysteries that awaited above ground. Whatever her motivation, the thought of her small, shrill voice chanting for him amidst the male chorus helped propel him past that fateful location from which he had fallen.

            By the time he was at the halfway point, fatigue started to set in. He paused there for some time, clinging to the face of the shaft, his cheek pressed against the rock, his heart thudding in his ears—steady and strong, not racing yet; he had kept his fear just beneath the surface, close enough to utilize it for incentive and caution but not close enough that it could swell and overwhelm him. The three years that had passed had allowed the terror from his fall to be dulled, yet he could feel its presence deep within, fighting to reclaim him. He needed to get to the top before that could happen.

            When another hundred feet had been left behind, his progress had slowed considerably. He adjusted his goals, focusing now on twenty-foot increments, talking softly to himself, encouraging himself since the distance dulled the chant to what seemed only a dream-like drone. His words tumbled out, a stream of consciousness, whatever came to mind as he reached ever upward, pausing only when all strength left him except the strength to cling to the wall.

            He wondered if the light was really as close as it seemed. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Surely he had no more than a hundred feet…then…freedom. He was tempted to look down in order to assure himself of his great progress, but he denied the deadly urge. He swallowed in a dry throat, realized he was now breathing through his mouth, exhaustion taxing his lungs and heart now, blood pounding in his ears, his head aching. Focusing upward, he could actually make out the definition of the gray clouds. They were no longer simply a blur of blended colors. There were lighter grays and darker grays, fascinating textures, moving like a caravan across the sky. The wind that propelled them strengthened as he rested there, hands and feet abraded and bleeding from the outcroppings and crevices; he could actually feel its breath as it spilled over the sides of the shaft’s opening. A clean breath; no sand, not after so many days of rain. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, relished the freshness of the air, the caress of warmth.

            At the thought of moisture for his parched tongue and throat, he felt a drop of rain upon his forehead. His first thought was to open his mouth and welcome the relief, but as he clung there to the wall and enjoyed the tiny splashes against his face, the sudden danger struck him, opening his eyes wide in fear. The rain would make the shaft walls slippery once again. He needed to move…quickly.

            He surveyed the wall above him, mapping out his handholds, where he would place his feet, which outcroppings would get him to that tantalizing ledge just below the mouth of the shaft in the shortest possible way. As he gathered his tenuous strength, a black bank of clouds darkened the sky, and rain crashed against him in a battering torrent, stealing his breath.

            “No,” he moaned, starting upward.

            His progress was painstakingly slow, for whenever he looked up to locate his next handhold, the rain poured into his eyes, blinding him. He used one hand to attempt to swipe his vision clear, for he dared not shake his head out of fear of losing his balance. But such an effort was nearly pointless; the minute he squinted just one eye upward in search of the next outcropping, his vision was drowned again. Now he could feel the old fear growing stronger, feeding off of his desperation. It invaded his chest, squeezing out his air, making him pant and struggle for each breath as his fingers crept sightlessly upward, seeking the next rock.

            Hand over hand, every muscle screaming, demanding he let go. Higher, foot by foot, his arms like lead, drained of blood, of power, his fingers trembling. Rain streamed down his body, weighted his shirt and pants…and the rope. The safety rope’s block and tackle lay below him now, and though that signified how far he had climbed, it also meant that if he fell now he would tumble at least a hundred feet before the rope could stop him, and when it did so, the jolt alone could snap his spine. His shoulder ached when he recalled the agony of his separated shoulder. If he failed at this height, he knew he would be lucky if all he suffered was a shoulder injury.

            His body demanded that he stop and rest again, but just as he was about to give in, his outstretched fingers scraped against the first broad ledge. He gasped in relief and opened his eyes. The stone platform directly above his head protected him from the rain, and he allowed himself one last pause to gather himself, shaking first one arm then the other beside him to force blood back into them. Then he did his best to calm his breathing before continuing, moving laterally from beneath the ledge so he could climb onto it from one end.

            When he pulled himself atop the ledge and rested on hands and knees, the chant surged up from below with fresh vigor, almost a frenzy. Exhausted, he allowed himself to sit, his knees drawn up, back against the wall, mouth open to gulp in the fresh air. He leaned his head back, allowed the rain to beat against his closed eyes as he listened to the chant. Neither of the two men who had attempted the climb during the past year had reached this height. In fact, he had to think back more than two years to remember anyone achieving this lofty goal, and that prisoner had later committed suicide in his cell, unable to bear the knowledge of how close he had come to freedom.

            He opened his eyes, knowing he should not delay. Already the rain had drenched the ledge, and he had intended to have dry footing to help him make the twelve-foot leap to the next ledge, a ledge that was also about eight feet higher than the first. Though he had grown to the height of a man, he would need the full extension of his arms in order to snag the edge of that next perch. Then, above that, two smaller ledges—just wide enough to precariously stand upon and no more—jutted out from the wall, within reach of the ledge and each other. Beyond that last small protrusion, he would be able to pull himself up to the rim of the shaft. These four ledges were the only means to climb the rest of the way, for the walls—while still rough from the strange diagonal rifling caused by whatever had created the shaft—lacked any crevices or outcroppings to grasp.

            “ _Deshi, deshi! Basara,_ _basara_!”

            The chant was impatient now, demanding that he continue, spurring him to his feet. Bane pressed his back against the wall, his arms spread out to either side as if he could somehow cling to the wall with his bleeding fingers. Against his better judgment, he chanced a curious glance beyond his toes, down toward the gathered prisoners, the pool’s surface mottled by the rain. He gasped at the shaft’s depth and flattened himself even tighter against the wall as fresh fear burst in his chest. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gritted his teeth, fought against the panic. Perhaps he should wait, stay here until the rain passed and the ledges dried out. But when would that be? Minutes? Hours? Days? And if he lingered, would he ever be able to move again? The doctor had once told him of a prisoner long ago who had made it to the first ledge then had been overcome by terror and remained there for two days, calling out in the hopes that someone on the surface would hear him and come to his rescue. In the end he had made a pitiful attempt to reach the next ledge, only to plunge downward, never to try again.

            Bane waited until he could conquer his panic and control his breathing again. He listened to the chant, to the voice of the rain, to the beat of his heart, and he imagined that he could hear Melisande and Talia. They would not be able to see him this far up, not in their cell, slightly recessed from the stepwell, but they would know; the chant’s manic tempo and volume would reveal his progress. He would not let them down. He would not remain frozen here like a frightened child. Thinking of his mother, he opened his eyes, focused on the next ledge, imagined the feel of it beneath him, just as he felt the stone beneath him now, supporting him so far from all that he cared about, so far above his home. No, he should not consider this place his home. To do so made it an anchor, holding him down, keeping him from his father, denying Talia and Melisande of their freedom, their family.

            Carefully he moved to the far end of his perch, facing the next ledge. Only a few feet of runway, but he had been practicing this leap for years now out in the stepwell. Other prisoners had laughed at him, but no doubt those men were not laughing now. He checked to make sure the rope was snug then wondered if perhaps the weight of the rope would hinder his leap. Yet, to remove it… His fingers hovered over the knot, but then he shook his head and fruitlessly wiped his hands against his shirt. No use. Everything was soaked by now.

            Gathering himself, he breathed out, breathed deeply in, closed his eyes, settled. When he opened his eyes, he glanced once toward the sky before returning his gaze to his goal and coiling his body. Then he sprang forward, leapt with all his renewed energy, reached upward and out into the yawning space.

            His fingers grasped the edge of his salvation, his momentum swinging his body beneath the second ledge. One foot scraped along the wall in an attempt to stabilize him. His left hand slipped on the wet rock, pulling a terrified gasp from him, allowing the fear back in. Frantically his feet searched for something to support him, to lift him up, but the hand slid away, leaving him dangling by one arm.

            The chant had stopped.

            “No,” he pleaded, trying to regain his handhold, stretching, kicking. The rain pounded against him like a sledgehammer attempting to drive him back into the earth. His right hand slipped, pulled inexorably away from the ledge by the weight of his body.

            “No…no…”

            He flailed wildly with his free hand, the light, the rain beating down upon him, eroding his strength, his balance until, at last, gravity tore freedom from his grip.

            The light sped away from him as he fell, still grasping for what was beyond his reach. He fell with the rain, traveling faster and faster, faster than the rain. Closing his eyes, he waited for the pain.

            When his meteoric body took up the slack on Hans’s line, he slammed to a halt, his whole body jerking, the pain pulling an outcry from him, the rope biting into him. But before the line could swing him like a pendulum against the shaft wall, he heard a snap from above, and downward he plunged again, the severed rope trailing behind.


	55. Chapter 55

            Agony consumed Bane. To attempt to move, to breathe tortured his body. He trembled from cold, and even those tiny, involuntary movements made him want to scream. But he found that he could not move of his own volition—he was tied down upon what felt like his charpoy. Ropes wrapped across his chest, his hips, pinning his arms to his sides, immobilizing his legs, the hemp rough against his skin. Where were his clothes?

            Distant voices echoed all around him, but he had to strain to hear them. He tried to speak but made no sound other than low moans and mumbles. He felt someone’s hands upon him, detected the doctor’s scent.

            _I am alive_ , he thought. _How can I be alive_?

            Someone draped a blanket over him, then another, and another, but still he shivered, realized his hair was wet. Of course…he must have landed in the pool. How far had he fallen? How could he have survived? Why had he fallen? The rope… Bane heard the sickening snap all over again, remembered. The rope had broken. But how? Hans regularly inspected it…

            The voices around him became more distinct, separated from one another so he could distinguish who was speaking. Those closest were the doctor…Hans…Abrams… Several male voices beyond theirs, outside of his cell, he guessed; no doubt the morbidly curious. But there was another sound, close, to one side, and it took all of his foggy concentration to realize what it was—sobbing. A small, fearful voice, higher pitched than all others around him.

            “Ba-ba, wake up. Please wake up.”

            Through the blanket layers, he felt her tiny hand upon his shoulder, trying to shake him, but then her touch retreated.

            “No, baby. The doctor doesn’t want him to move.” Melisande’s unsteady words, betraying her own tears. “He is badly hurt.”

            “Ba-ba, wake up!”

            Slowly he cracked his eyelids. Tears born of unrelenting pain trickled from the outside corners of his eyes. He could not move his head, for that also had been immobilized with a cloth-covered rope across his forehead. Having regained consciousness, his immediate instinct was to fight against the restraints, but his physical torment forbade even the slightest movement.

            “Lie still, Bane,” Assad gravely said, his face close.

            “He’s awake, Mama!”

            Hans and Abrams stood near the foot of his charpoy, both men grim. The doctor, who sat on a stool next to the charpoy, looked like death itself—drained of color, his eyes dark and troubled.

            “What happened?” Bane winced.

            “The rope broke,” Hans said bitterly. “It makes no sense; I checked it just the other day…”

            “You fell, Ba-ba.”

            “A hell of a long ways,” Abrams added with more emotion than Bane had heard from the man since he had arrived in the pit. “I think someone cut that damn rope; it’s the only explanation.”

            “I believe you have multiple broken ribs,” Assad said. “Your right wrist, your hand as well. And I fear you may have seriously damaged your spine.”

            “I can feel my extremities,” Bane insisted.

            “Yes. That is a good sign. But we have immobilized you as a precaution. Tell me where you feel the pain.”

            “Everywhere,” he gasped. “My neck, my back.”

            Talia, perched on her charpoy next to her mother, as close as possible, reached through the bars again, her cheeks drenched, her eyes large and terrified. He wished he could hold her, console her, assure her that things would be all right, but the pain that engulfed him would not allow such a lie. She touched his shoulder gently this time, and her mother allowed her hand to remain there. Melisande also reached for him, resting her hand atop the blanket covering his left hand. The tracks of countless tears marred her face as well. No doubt she had witnessed his plunge down the shaft. If she had screamed at the sight, he had no memory of it, of anything after he had heard the rope snap. Surely he had been conscious when he struck, but he knew the mind often protected itself by erasing the sensory memories of trauma.

            “I have a small supply of morphine,” the doctor said. “I will give you a shot.”

            “Then what?” Bane rasped, already eager for the drug, hoping Assad did not have to return to his cell to retrieve it.

            The doctor frowned. “We wait. What else can we do?”

            “Doctor,” Melisande said desperately, “there must be something.”

            “I am no surgeon,” Assad snapped, aberrantly unnerved, “and even if I were, this is no place for an operation. Without radiographs we don’t even know the extent of his injuries. Anything that I blindly attempt could lead to something worse, like paralysis.”

            “What’s that, Mama?”

            “Hush, baby.” She put her arm around Talia and drew her close. “Don’t worry.”

            “Ba-ba needs medicine.”

            “Doctor Assad has medicine. But it will make Bane very sleepy, so we must let him rest.”

            “Can I sit with him? I’ll be quiet.”

            Melisande’s glance went to the stray prisoners still hovering outside Bane’s cell. “Maybe later, _habibi_.”

            Assad rummaged through his medical bag and withdrew a needle and syringe, along with a single-dose vial of morphine. With unsteady hands, he drew the drug, saying, “We should be resupplied within the next couple of days. I will do everything I can to have you removed from here, so you can be properly treated.”

            Instead of relief Bane felt only frantic fear at the thought, his gaze reaching for Melisande. “No, I don’t want to leave.”

            “Damn it, Bane,” Abrams growled. “Don’t be an idiot.”

            “Ba-ba’s going to leave?”

            Assad pushed the blanket away from Bane’s right arm, rubbed an alcohol swab against his skin.

            “Bane,” Melisande said, gently squeezing his hand, “I will try to get word to my mother. She will know of someone who can help you.”

            “I don’t want him to leave,” Talia said, the tears back in her words. “Ba-ba, don’t go.”

            The needle pricked him.

            “Bane needs a doctor, _habibi_ ,” Melisande soothed.

            “He has a doctor.”

            “Doctor Assad can’t fix him.”

            “Why? Why can’t you fix him? Ba-ba, don’t go. I’m scared.”

            Bane welcomed the drug, impatient for its release, the physical agony made worse by the emotional. But he did not want to slip away with Talia’s sobs in his ears. He wanted to reach for her hand, his fingers twitching impotently, his gaze searching for her as his eyelids began to sag.

            “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. Then the darkness returned, and he fell far away from them all.

#

            Time meant nothing to Bane. Perhaps he had lain in his cell for two days. Or perhaps it had been two years. He was cognizant of few things other than pain. The morphine helped, but the doctor did not have enough of a supply to give him the dosage required to completely alleviate his hell. When he was lucid enough to gain foggy awareness, he sensed Talia and Melisande nearby. They would talk to him, muffled words that made little sense to him, but he was grateful for their efforts, for he did not feel so alone and hopeless then. The doctor was often beside him, caring for his needs, administering the morphine.

            “I want to kiss Ba-ba good-bye, Mama.”

            Bane heard Talia’s faraway voice, tried to make sense of her words. Good-bye? Where was she going? Unwittingly he tried to move, only to cause more discomfort throughout his body.

            His cell door opened, and he heard Doctor Assad say, “You must be quick, child. We must carry him out before the soldiers leave.”

            Then Bane remembered. He fought through the medicinal haze, opened his eyes.

            “Ba-ba.” Talia sat on the edge of his charpoy, her anxious face close to his. “Mama, he’s awake.”

            Melisande was sitting near the bars. He felt her presence, but he could not look away from Talia. The doctor stood nearby while just outside Hans and Abrams waited, stone-faced.

            “Hurry, _habibi_. Say your good-byes so they can take him out.”

            Talia tried to speak, but her words broke into sobs.

            Bane softly shushed her. “It’s all right. Don’t cry.”

            Assad crouched beside Talia and put his arm around her, murmured, “Do not worry, child. You will see him again.” He smiled at her. “Say farewell now. We don’t have much time.”

            Talia tried to swallow her sorrow as her index finger absently traced Bane’s lips, as if this familiar gesture would somehow return him to health. “Good-bye,” she whispered, then kissed his damp cheek.

            He kissed her finger and tried to smile but even that effort hurt. “Good-bye,” he whispered.

            Another needle prick, and Talia’s image dissolved before him.


	56. Chapter 56

            As Bane was hoisted up the shaft, semi-conscious, his litter bumped and scraped against the walls, each occasion sending knives of torment slicing throughout his body. In an effort to distract himself, he considered the ropes that were conveying him out of the pit. Even in his muddled state the tragic irony was not lost upon him as his thoughts drifted to the faulty safety rope that had sent him to the bottom of the shaft. He remembered Hans’s and Abrams’s words after he had fallen. Of course it made sense that someone had tampered with the rope. The calculating grin on Omar Alam’s face had haunted him since. He should have known…

            Unfamiliar voices reached his ears, telling him that he was near the surface. Male voices. Hindi. He did not know the language as well as English or Arabic, and in his drugged condition he doubted he would have comprehended even if he were otherwise fluent. The light against his closed eyes was not bright—no sun; he smelled rain, but for now he was dry, wrapped in blankets. The air was warm. Not the dry warmth like that from a brazier, but a moist, living warmth, filled with foreign smells. Yet through this sudden press of new aromas he was certain that he smelled Melisande and Talia, and then he remembered Talia’s words. But when had she spoken them?

            “You must take Papa’s blanket,” she had said while tucking it snuggly around him. “Then you won’t forget us.”

            How he had wanted to assure her that he could never forget them and that he promised to bring the blanket safely back. It touched him deeply that Melisande would entrust such a thing to him, especially when she had no idea if she would ever see the blanket—or him—again. Melisande had said her mother might be able to help him. But how? No doubt she could try to communicate with her parent via a letter passed to the men in charge of the prison resupply. But could they be trusted to deliver it? And if so would her mother bother to assist some stranger who was believed to be a desperate criminal? Would the woman be risking repercussions from Melisande’s father if the man discovered the collusion?

            Too many thoughts, too many unanswerable questions for his pain-racked mind to tolerate. He should allow the drug to take him completely away; he should give in to the respite of oblivion. Yet…he needed to see; he needed at least one glimpse of it—the world of light before he let go. His desire brought the words of Shakespeare to mind: “…all the world will be in love with night, and pay no worship to the garish sun.”

            When he felt hands upon his litter, lifting him over the lip of the shaft, he cautiously opened his eyes, the effort amazingly taxing. The brightness pained his head and nearly forced him to close his eyes again, but instead he fought to squint. Brown faces but none actually looking at him, as if they were merely hoisting cargo, but he was not interested in the men. With his movements restrained, he could not turn his head to see the land around him; he could see only the soldiers in worn desert uniforms who carried the litter…and the sky above. Now he could feel the breeze fully against his face like a caress, a most pleasant sensation that was almost able to pull a smile from him if not for the pain caused by each jarring step taken by the soldiers.

            He heard a rumble nearby, growing louder as he was carried farther away from the shaft opening. Was it thunder? No, it was a steady, low sound that did not come from the sky. And there was an unpleasant odor that accompanied it. The soldiers set his litter down, and two of them clambered up into the bed of a truck. The noise of the vehicle struck Bane’s sensitive ears a cruel blow. Having only seen images of vehicles, he had never considered their smell and sound. Now the soldiers on the ground lifted him up, passed him to the men in the truck. A canvas-covered, dark interior. The tailgate slammed shut, shaking him once more, and he moaned and closed his eyes; keeping them open took far too much energy, and what little he had slipped entirely away, claimed by the pain and the morphine as the truck began to move.

            Bane had no idea how far they traveled, but it seemed like endless days, each bump sending fresh waves of anguish surging through him. A deep terror had begun to set in as soon as the truck had started on its journey, for all he could think of besides the pain was how he was moving away from all he knew, from the only people he cared about. He sensed no compassion in his guards. Occasionally he was conscious of their conversations, but he could tell their words had nothing to do with him, even when he unwittingly cried out when the truck hit yet another hole in the road.

            Images of his mother invaded his delirium, conjured images of his father with features pieced together through his mother’s descriptions. His father… How far away was he? Desperately Bane struggled to remember his name. Dorr…Dorrance…last name or first? Last, he decided after an eternity of debate. First name…something more familiar. Edward…no, Edmund. Edmund Dorrance. He mumbled the name, but did he truly say it or did he just imagine it so? Perhaps if he thought it over and over, the name would indeed be heard by those around him.

            The blankets still covered him, and he heavily perspired in the stuffy, smelly, hot interior of the truck, his body so utterly unprepared for the climate above ground. Though sweat-soaked, he would not ask to have the blankets removed even if he had the ability to do so, for he feared that Melisande’s blanket would be lost or stolen. The heat drove his thirst to new heights, but only once did anyone offer a trickle of water.

            A lifetime had passed by the time the truck finally stopped. Night had set in, the last gasp of light in the sky losing its battle with darkness. Bane caught a glimpse of it as the soldiers removed him from the truck. By then the morphine had worn off, and any words he might want to say were torn asunder by the agony of his injuries and by the oppressive heat. Once free of the truck, there was some relief from the temperature, but the breeze of earlier had died completely away with the setting of the sun. If only he could have witnessed the sun’s demise, something he had always wondered about—how the flaming ball met the distant landscape and vanished—but no doubt the monsoonal clouds had veiled the sight.

            The soldiers carried him into a low building made of earthen bricks. New voices now. Not just men, but a couple of women, too, and somewhere a child cried, but he could see nothing except his litter bearers and the ceiling above him. It was even warmer in the building than outside.

            “Please,” he choked out in a whisper in English, “water.” When no one paid attention to his request, he asked in faltering Hindi but still received no response.

            They traveled down a hallway and turned left into a room brightly lit by several bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. He moaned and closed his eyes against the harsh glow that seemed brighter than a summer sun. Without a word of explanation, the soldiers left him alone in the room. He tried to listen to the voices coming from beyond the door, but he could not decipher them through his pain. Flies danced around the light bulbs, momentarily distracting him. There had been no flies in the cold environment of the pit. Fascinated, he watched their dizzying flight, landing then taking off only to circle and land again, drawn to the light as were most living things, as he had been drawn to the top of the shaft. Yet, he reflected, look what that impulse had gotten him.

            One of the flies buzzed downward in a spiral, coming to land upon his face. The touch of its tiny legs startled him, and his involuntary twitch caused him to groan. Fresh pain surged up his spine, numbing his brain. The heat of nausea made his head swim. He tried to call out to anyone who might hear, but before he could make a sound his suffering bore him away into unconsciousness once more.

#

            Bane awoke to the sensation of the blankets being removed from his naked form. With an involuntary gasp, he opened his eyes to find a man and a woman bent over him, the woman taking off his blankets, the man using a knife to slice through his bindings. Their stoic, unfamiliar faces frightened him, and for a minute he forgot where he was, wondered if he were dreaming or perhaps dead.

            The swarthy man was dressed in civilian garb, wearing a long, dull white garment over his clothes, unbuttoned, a stethoscope around his neck. From behind slightly askew glasses, his gaze flicked to Bane, heavy eyebrows lifting in surprise.

            “Be still,” the man commanded in accented English.

            The woman’s coffee-brown eyes reached to Bane. Though she did not smile, there was kindness in her dark countenance. Thinking of his nakedness in front of these strangers, Bane’s face warmed, and he looked quickly away from the woman.

            “That blanket,” Bane said with sudden urgency as Melisande’s blanket was withdrawn. “Please…let me keep it.”

            “Those are nothing but filthy rags,” the man said.

            “Not this one,” the woman said with the same Hindi accent as the man. She draped Melisande’s blanket across her arm.

            Desperate, Bane stammered, “It’s not mine; it belongs to someone…dear to me. Please…”

            “Don’t worry,” she assured with a small smile, folding the blanket. “Nothing will happen to it.”

            Exhausted, Bane closed his eyes for a moment, murmured, “Thank you.” His head pounded from the light and dehydration. “May I have some water please?”

            “We will start an IV,” the man said. “You will receive hydration by those means. You cannot drink until it is determined whether or not I will operate.” He turned slightly to the woman, gestured impatiently with one hand. She set aside the blanket and retrieved a syringe from a small stainless steel table. “Now,” he said, “I will give you something for the pain, so you will rest.”

            The thought of this man cutting him open did not provide Bane with peace of mind. Something about the doctor’s disheveled appearance and brusque manner deeply concerned him. Yet what were his choices? He could not live with this unbearable torture.

            “Is this a hospital?” he asked warily as the needle pressed into his arm.

            The doctor’s apathetic glance flashed only once to Bane’s face. “It is as close to a hospital as someone like you will ever get. You should be thankful that anyone cared enough to send you here.”

            Bane scowled at the man’s prejudice and wondered what he had been told about his patient. And who was he referring to when he said someone had cared enough to send him here? Could he be referring to Doctor Assad…or someone else?

            Before he could form an inquiry, the morphine rode in upon him like night. The bulb above his head dimmed, and all he was aware of was the frantic buzz of flies until even that sound was swallowed by insensibility.

#

            He was aware of nothing after that, not until days later when he finally floated close to consciousness. Sounds trickled back to him from afar—rain drumming on the roof, and voices, but certainly not the voices from the pit. Smell returned as well; this, too, assured him that he was not in prison—the scent of alcohol and iodine reminded him of Doctor Assad. Occasionally the voices drew close to him, and he thought he recognized the woman who had promised to safeguard Melisande’s blanket. His fingers twitched at the memory, brushing against fabric—a familiar weave—exploring as he tried to picture the blanket. Yes, it was here with him, covering him, offering comfort and warmth. He breathed deeply, smelled them both…his family…

            “Here. This is the one.” The doctor’s voice, something new in his tone—caution, almost dread.

            Another male voice, strong but speaking in an undertone, almost secretive, and with no accent to his English, “Are you sure?”

            Bane struggled to regain consciousness, but the sedatives controlled him, pressed him down just below the surface of true awareness, of sight. The two men were not close, certainly not beside where he lay. Why did they not come closer? Were they afraid of waking him?

            “He came from a prison?” the second man asked as if in disbelief.

            “Yes. That is where he was injured.”

            “Someone did this to him?”

            “No, he did it to himself while trying to escape, they said. He fell from a height.”

            A pause, more incredulity, “He looks too young to be a convict.”

            The doctor gave a nervous, cold chuckle. “We both know youth does not preclude criminal activity, especially in the poorer parts of the world.”

            Silence, long and painful to Bane whose curiosity agitated him.

            “Is he awake?” The question was spoken even quieter, a hint of alarm.

            “No, he is sedated.” Another pause, then the doctor ventured, “So…do you recognize him?”

            Bane fought desperately against the medication, wanted to know who this stranger was. How could someone from beyond the pit recognize him? Or had this man once been a prisoner? No, no one had ever escaped. Men were not thrown into the pit simply to serve a sentence; they were thrown there to suffer and die.

            “No,” the man answered at last, relief in his voice. “No, I don’t recognize him.” A sigh, a lengthy pause. “Now…I must be going.”

            “We are sorry to have wasted your time, sir.”

            Another pause. “What will become of him?”

            “He will be returned to the prison, of course, where he belongs.”

            The other man made a quiet sound, a grunt that seemed to hold some scrap of regret. “Well, I must be on my way.”

            The door closed behind them, and their murmuring voices drifted away.


	57. Chapter 57

            “It is good to see you awake.” The nurse smiled at Bane, her dark complexion reminding him of Melisande.

            Bane felt as if he had just returned from the dead, and he lay there for a long moment, half propped up in bed by pillows, saying nothing. His entire body felt foreign and heavy. Instinctively he tried to move his head but could not. A downward glance revealed a Minerva cast reaching to below his ribs, and just below that lay Melisande’s blanket, covering his legs, legs no longer naked but instead wearing what felt like cotton pants. The plaster cast extended upward to his neck and the lower part of his head, the sides cut out for his ears and the front for his face, while a halo of plaster from the back of the cast encircled his head.

            A brief moment of panic flashed through him until he realized at least he was no longer completely restrained, that he could move all of his extremities, that he was not paralyzed in any way. His right wrist was weighted by a cast that reached above his elbow, the arm bent at a ninety degree angle. He flexed his fingers, but the small finger did not respond and instead curled uselessly toward his palm. Obviously the doctor had not thought it important enough to correct the ligament damage to his fifth digit. Tentative, he expected any movement to elicit the overall horrible pain from before the surgery, but to his great surprise his discomfort was minimal, though he cautioned himself that some of the relief might be credited to pain medication.

            As the immediate fear drifted away, a variety of sounds reached him—men talking beyond his small room, the rumble of a vehicle somewhere beyond these walls, children’s laughter; the music of happiness in their distant shouts from outside entranced him, pulling a wondering smile to his dry lips as he thought of Talia.

            “The rain has stopped for now, so the children play,” the nurse said. “Now, you must be very thirsty. Let me pour you a drink.”

            She turned to a pitcher on a small stainless steel table beside his bed. When the nurse offered him a cup, he could only stare at it—it was neither pottery nor tin, but a white material with a thin, opaque tube protruding from it. She seemed puzzled by his stare and his hesitation, and when he did not take the cup from her, she pressed it closer to his lips. He realized the tube was hollow.

            “It’s water,” she urged.

            Hesitant, he took the cup with his left hand and raised it to his mouth, bumping aside the white tube. Then he drank like a dying man.

            “Use the straw,” she said. “Less chance of swallowing air that way.”

            “This?”

            “Yes, of course. The straw.”

            “Oh…”

            She blinked in astonishment. “You don’t know what a straw is?”

            His face reddened as he put his lips around the plastic. Nothing.

            “You suck on it. Like a baby with a bottle.”

            _A bottle of what_? he wondered in confusion, for Talia had never sucked on anything but her mother’s breast. When he followed the nurse’s instructions, he proceeded to draw more water than expected, choking himself. His coughs sent fresh pain throughout his rib cage and back, draining the color from his face.

            “Not too much,” she patiently said. “Just sips.”

            The water tasted so different from what he was accustomed to in the pit. This was wonderfully fresh and somehow lighter upon his tongue and down his throat.

            “Tell me your name,” she said as she refilled the cup. “The soldiers who brought you never told us.”

            Bane doubted that the men had even known his name.

            “Bane.”

            “What is your first name?”

            Briefly he considered telling her, but in truth he had almost forgotten it, and to even think of it now seemed strange and out of place, irrelevant. “That’s all there is,” he said at last.

            She frowned and handed the cup back to him.

            Bane glanced upward. “Can you turn the lights off?”

            “Turn them off? Whatever for?”

            “It’s just that…well, I’m not used to the brightness.”

            She seemed to suddenly understand and honored his request. Light still streamed in from a window to his right, beyond his field of vision, a view of the outside world tantalizingly close but unattainable.

            His left hand smoothed Melisande’s blanket. “Thank you for letting me keep this.”

            The door to his small, solitary room opened, admitting the doctor. “Well now, I see he has finally recovered his senses,” he said with practiced indifference. His gaze flicked to the nurse, as if suspicious of her motives for being there. “You are needed in the pediatric ward.”

            “Yes, Doctor.” She lowered her eyes and hurried out.

            Bane regretted her departure, unhappy with the doctor’s brusque treatment of her, but then he remembered Melisande’s words about the general subservient role of women in this part of the world. It angered him to think that men like her father had spoken to Melisande in such a way. Bane’s dislike of the doctor grew, his rancor over his manner toward the nurse making it difficult to concentrate on what the man was telling him about his injuries and the operation.

            “It has been some time since I have done such…delicate surgery,” the doctor said with a touch of smugness. “But you are lucky to have someone more than a butcher touch you.”

            Bane scowled. “How long will I stay here?”

            “Only a couple of days more, then you will be sent back to prison. I will send the necessary implements with you so Doctor Assad can remove your casts when it is time.”

            “You know Doctor Assad?”

            The man momentarily dropped his gaze, straightened his glasses. “I knew the good Doctor years ago, yes. We attended university together and, for a while afterwards, worked together. But that was before he became a corruptible man.”

            Bane’s scowl deepened. “All men are corruptible.”

            The doctor gave a sharp laugh. “Are they? Is that why I work in a place like this, treating those with little or no money to pay, treating someone like you?”

            “Why did you treat me? Because of Doctor Assad?”

            “ _Why_ is none of your business.”

            “Does it have anything to do with the man who came to see me?”

            Shock flashed across the physician’s face, but he quickly and skillfully doused it. “What are you talking about?”

            “I heard you speaking with a man; I don’t know when, but I think it was after the surgery. You asked him if he recognized me.”

            “You are mistaken. No doubt this was some fabrication of your mind while under the effects of anesthesia.” The doctor turned to a cabinet on the wall behind him.

            “I know what I heard.”

            “No, young man,” he said evenly, retrieving a fresh needle from the cabinet, “you do not, for there was nothing to hear.” He scoffed as he drew a dosage from a vial. “Who could possibly know who you are outside of that pit you call home?” He turned back to Bane and proceeded to administer the drug into the IV access port. “Now, enough foolish talk. You will agitate yourself, and I have more patients to see.”

            Bane wanted to argue his point, to make the man uncomfortable in the hopes that he would reveal the truth. But the doctor’s dismissive words sewed enough doubt in his mind that he hesitated too long, and the sedative swiftly took him away before the physician had even left the room.

#

            “The truck will be here soon,” the doctor’s agitated voice penetrated the door to Bane’s room.

            A woman answered, “I will not be long.”

            Bane set aside the Jaipur newspaper that he had been reading, curious about the unfamiliar voice. During his time here, he had seen no one but the doctor and the nurse. Woefully unaccustomed to being so isolated, he had requested to share a ward with other patients, for he wanted to interact with others, to learn and understand these people who lived so differently from those in the pit. But the doctor had vehemently refused his petition. During the brief periods when he was allowed out of bed with the nurse’s help, he was forbidden from even leaving the room.

            The doctor now entered, looking extremely uneasy, and held the door for a woman. She flowed in behind him, dressed in a traditional black _jilb_ _āb_ and _shaylah_. Bane’s breath caught at the sight of her—her form, movement, and beauty mirrored Melisande.

            “Leave us,” she said in English to both the doctor and a man who appeared to be some sort of attendant of hers.

            The doctor started to protest, but one look from the burly attendant sent the physician on his way. The woman nodded to her escort, and he reluctantly but dutifully stepped outside as well, closing the door behind him. Bane got the distinct feeling that the man would remain just on the other side.

            As she approached Bane’s bed, she wore a tremulous smile, her eyes the same pale brown as Melisande’s.

            Taking in her Muslim dress, Bane greeted her, “ _Assalamu_ _’alaykum_.”

            “ _Wa ’alaykum us salaam_.” She hesitated. “You are Bane?”

            He momentarily choked on his response as the realization struck him—this was Melisande’s mother. Clearing his throat, he replied, “Yes.”

            “You know my daughter, Melisande?”

            “Yes.”

            She closed her eyes, wavering like a reed in the wind.

            “Won’t you sit down?” he offered, afraid she might faint.

            Her eyes opened, and she gratefully retrieved a chair in which he had been sitting near the window a short time ago. “The doctor says we do not have much time before the truck arrives to take you away. I am so thankful I did not miss you.” Her attention lingered upon his cast. “My name is Maysam.”

            Maysam, Arabic for beautiful. Of course, Bane thought.

            “I am so sorry that you were injured, but in truth it has proven a blessing for me.” Maysam’s smile returned, this time with more strength, the same strength that Bane had often seen reflected in her daughter. “Because of you coming here, Melisande was able to write to me.” Her hands—folded in her lap—moved restlessly. “You have no idea how much that has meant to me…to know…after all this time…that she is alive and well. She told me all about you. I would have come sooner if I had been able to. Please believe that.”

            At a loss, he nodded, overcome by the emotions stirred in him by her resemblance to Melisande. Since gaining consciousness after the surgery, he had struggled with a wide array of moods, from excitement to loneliness, but now—looking at this woman as if into the cell adjacent to his in the pit—he could finally identify the most gut-wrenching sensation he had experienced since his arrival here: homesickness. He had heard of this phenomenon in stories, but now he truly understood what it meant—the utter absence of things most familiar and most loved, like discovering a hole inside oneself that only those conversant things could fill.

            “But you must tell me, Bane,” she said, “you must tell me the truth about my daughter. Is she truly well, as she has written?”

            “Yes,” he finally mastered his inner sentiments and relocated his voice. “She lives next to me. We are…close friends.” He nearly spoke of Talia but cautioned himself against it, for he knew Melisande’s fear that her father might bring harm to the child if he knew of Talia’s existence. So Bane waited to see if Maysam mentioned her first. “She is safe from the inmates.”

            “Thanks to you, she told me. I wish I could have been here sooner; perhaps I could have arranged for you to be in a better place, with better care.”

            “I’m honored that you came to see me at all.”

            Maysam lowered her voice with a glance toward the door. “Perhaps I can offer you something more precious than medical care.” She leaned toward him. “Freedom.”

            The word struck Bane speechless.

            “I doubt that it would take much of the money I carry with me to bribe the soldiers into transporting you someplace other than back to prison. I have…friends who could care for you while you recover your health. They would be discreet. Once you are well, you may seek me out, and I will see to it that you have employment.”

            Bane grappled with his racing thoughts, tried to comprehend Maysam’s offer. But all he could think of while looking into her earnest eyes were Melisande and Talia.

            From outside came the roar of a truck and the squeal of brakes. Bane’s eyes flashed to the side, wishing he could see through the window. His heart began to hammer against the heavy plaster of his cast.

            “Shall I make it so?” Maysam asked.

            He needed more time. “I—I don’t know. I mean…thank you. But—”

            The doctor’s voice came down the hallway, “Stand out of the way. We must get him ready to travel.”

            The attendant growled something that Bane could not hear, his mind too muddled by frantic confusion.

            “Do not be afraid,” Maysam said. “The people who will care for you are trustworthy.”

            “It’s not that,” he stammered. “It’s Melisande and… I promised them—her that I would come back.”

            “My daughter would never expect you to make such a sacrifice. She is afraid for your health if you return there. She asked me to see to your freedom.”

            The room swam before his eyes. The doctor’s demand was more insistent now to the man blocking his entry.

            “I—I don’t know,” Bane mumbled, his fingers twitching against Melisande’s blanket.

            “There is no time, Bane. You must let me do this.”

            He expected the soldiers to barge in, to decide for him. When he tore his gaze away from the door and back to Maysam, he saw Melisande, and he knew the answer to his dilemma; it was horribly, painfully clear.

            “I have to go back. I can’t leave her there. I’m all she has. She’s all I have.”

            Maysam frowned with a mixture of regret and appreciation. “She told me of all that you have done for her. I said to myself, ‘How can all this be true of one so young and not of our blood or our beliefs?’ But now I see. When Melisande was taken from me, I prayed that Allah would send a protector to watch over her, and my prayers were answered. _Haris_ —protector. That is the name your mother should have given you.”

            With an oath, the doctor swung the door wide, his glasses askew, his hair equally disheveled. “You must leave now,” he commanded Maysam, the nurse following him into the room, troubled and uncomfortable.

            Maysam stood from the chair, her eyes beseeching Bane. “Are you certain, Haris?”

            A sudden lump in his throat blocked further words. He nodded.

            She leaned close again, spoke near a desperate, poignant whisper, “You must tell my daughter not to lose faith, that I will find a way to free her…and you. Give her my love.”

            “I will.”

            She pressed a small pouch into his left hand, still speaking close, “Take this. For you and my daughter. Conceal it from the soldiers.”

            Maysam stepped back with a final, quivering smile, never turning away from him as the nurse moved the chair. She was waiting for him to change his mind, hoping he would, while also hoping that he would return to protect Melisande. Then, receiving no altering words from him, she nodded in respectful gratitude and left the room in a billow of black.


	58. Chapter 58

            Bane lay tied to a litter once more, but this time he was being lowered, not raised. He fixed his gaze upon the receding sky as the familiar gray walls of the shaft slid slowly past, reducing his view of the ash-colored heavens bit by bit. Mixed emotions washed over him, one being a deep, penetrating melancholy about his return, as if he had somehow failed all over again. And to return as an invalid, to be a burden to the doctor and to Melisande who would worry about him and insist on caring for him. His fingers trailed along her blanket as he thought of her mother, of Maysam’s sadness and desperation, a grief she would not have to feel if only he had climbed out of the pit instead of falling. True—as Maysam had said—his failure had, at least, brought some consolation to her, knowing her daughter was alive and safe, as safe as she could be in the pit, but he found little solace in this now.

            Yet as he forced these gloomy musings aside, their reverse brought him close to giddy anticipation. The homesickness that had plagued him during his absence, his sadness in being away from those he loved had dissipated during the journey back here. The doctor had given him a sedative and an extra dose of pain medication to combat the jouncing truck ride, but once the sedative wore off, he could not sleep, too eager to see Melisande and Talia again. Now, as he slipped inexorably down the shaft, he caught the shrill echo of Talia’s voice, distant at first, growing louder the farther he descended.

            “Ba-ba!” She drew out each syllable, pulling a grin from him. He was low enough now, she would be able to see him. Moving slowly so as not to shift his weight against the ropes that secured his litter, he raised his left hand just above his chest and wiggled his fingers. Talia’s burst of laughter from her distant cell made Bane laugh as well.

            “Mama, did you see? Did you see? He waved!”

            At the bottom of the shaft, the same men who had seen him removed days ago awaited him—Assad, Hans, and Abrams. How many days ago? Bane had no idea. His time away seemed a blur now, an unpleasant period of isolation that he was eager to forget. Home. Yes, he was home now.

            Hans flashed a wide, relieved grin as he welcomed Bane. Assad’s expression was warm. Even Abrams managed something close to a smile across his slash of a mouth.

            “Your holiday is over, Bane,” Hans said as he and Abrams untied the ropes. Once released, they were quickly pulled back to the surface.

            “Remain on the litter,” Assad ordered. “We will carry you to your cell.”

            “I can walk,” Bane protested.

            “Yes, and you could also become unbalanced and fall. Seeing you fall into the pool once, my boy, was quite enough.”

            All this time, Talia kept up her calls to him.

            “Now,” Abrams grumbled as he helped lift the litter, “maybe with you back, that kid will sleep through the night and let me sleep, too.”

            Bane grinned. It felt good to be happy again, so good that he did not even argue against the doctor’s orders.

            Talia was bouncing up and down at the front of her cell, standing beside her mother who was smiling as broadly as her daughter. Melisande’s joy, however, was slightly damaged once Bane drew near and she could see his casts beneath her blanket.

            “Ba-ba, you’re back!”

            “I told you I would be,” he said as they carried him past, just out of Talia’s reach.

            She ran to the side bars as the men carefully transferred him to his charpoy, placing him so that his left side—and his undamaged arm—was nearest the bars. Talia immediately clutched his hand.

            “Easy, child,” the doctor chided. “Can’t you see Bane is still not well?”

            “What is this, Ba-ba?” She rapped her knuckles with a hollow ring against the Minerva cast. “Is it new clothes? It’s hard!”

            Bane chuckled. “No, it’s not clothes. It’s a cast.”

            “What’s it for?”

            “So I don’t move too much while my back and neck heal.”

            Assad said, “I will get a sling for your arm. And if Hans will be so kind as to fetch a length of rope, we will suspend a loop from the ceiling so you can pull yourself up in bed whenever you like. Perhaps we can scare up some pillows to put behind you so you do not always lie flat.”

            “He can use ours,” Melisande offered.

            All of the attention made Bane’s head spin as Talia talked over everyone, ignoring her mother’s attempt to quiet her. Abrams—never an enthusiast when it came to noise, whether joyous or otherwise—gave Bane a brief nod before leaving, disappearing down the corridor, no doubt to get as far away from Talia’s animation as possible until things died down. Hans left to retrieve the rope.

            When Assad started to leave to get additional pillows from his cell, Talia said, “Bring back our key; I wanna sit with Ba-ba.”

            “Not right away,” Melisande admonished her. “Bane is tired from his journey.”

            “No, please,” Bane said. “Let her come. I’m not tired.”

            Talia grinned up at her mother.

            Assad waited near Bane’s door for a decision.

            “Will it be all right, Doctor?” Melisande asked.

            “I don’t see why not; seems to me it will do Bane some good. But,” he wagged a finger at Talia, “no rough-housing.” He glanced at the envelope in his hand, which Bane had given him, containing the surgical report from the clinic. “His injuries were severe. We don’t want to damage what has been corrected. He must be allowed to heal.”

            Hans was back with the rope before Assad returned, and in no time he fashioned a loop above Bane’s charpoy, within easy reach. By then the doctor had returned with a sling, a couple of pillows, and two blankets to replace the ones lost to the clinic’s trash. Bane regretted their demise because he had had those blankets since before his mother’s death.

            “You still have Papa’s blanket,” Talia noted.

            “Of course. I promised I’d bring it back, didn’t I?”

            “Can I come over now?”

            Assad used the pillows he had brought and the ones Melisande easily slipped between the bars as well as blankets to prop Bane up, then he went to escort Talia into the cell. She ran to Bane, stopping just short of flinging herself upon him when her mother and the doctor sharply reminded her to be careful. Awkwardly, Bane lifted his casted right arm so she could scoot beneath it, then he embraced her as best as he could in his unwieldy plaster state. She showered his face with kisses until he laughed, “I can’t breathe.”

            “Well,” Assad said with a smile and a nod toward Hans, “we will leave you to your company. I will read the surgical report and come back later to see you and discuss your recovery.”

            As the doctor and Hans were leaving, Gola limped past. “Well, well, well. Look who’s back. Here me and my leg were hoping you were dead.”

            Talia stuck out her tongue at the man. He chuckled darkly, his jealous glance touching Melisande before he entered his cell and disappeared behind the blanket hanging between them.

            Other prisoners had already been trickling past, the curious, the disbelieving, but none stopped to talk. Just as well, for they would not have gotten a word in with Talia determined to monopolize Bane, and Bane happy to allow it.

            “Where was you, Ba-ba?” Talia asked, her fingers exploring the bulky cast. “What happened to your hair?”

            “I was at a medical clinic. They shaved off my hair for the surgery and because of this cast around my head.”

            “What’s surgery?”

            Melisande, sitting close to the bars on her charpoy, said, “I told you, _habibi_. Don’t you remember?”

            Bane figured she did remember, for the child had a memory like a steel trap, but she would want to hear _his_ explanation. So in the simplest of terms he described what had been done to him.

            “What was it like?” she asked with wonder, her gaze lifting to the ceiling. “Up there.”

            “Well, I was kept indoors all the time because of being hurt, so unfortunately I wasn’t able to explore or really see much. I only got to talk to the doctor and the nurse and,” he looked at Melisande, a broad smile pressing against the edges of the cast where it hugged his cheeks, “and your mother.”

            Melisande’s face lit up, her hands gripped the bars. “She came to see you?”

            “Who?” Talia asked. “Who came to see you, Ba-ba?”

            “Your grandmother; your mama’s mama.”

            Talia looked in confusion to her mother, though Melisande had told her of her parents.

            Bane asked, “How did you convince the guards to deliver your message?”

            “Money, of course. I gave them what we had here—it wasn’t much, as you know—but I told them if they delivered my message to her and her alone, she would compensate them generously.” Some of Melisande’s happiness faded. “But, if she came to visit you, why are you back? I begged her to see that you were not returned here. Did she say why she could not send you someplace safe?”

            He frowned, watching Talia’s fingers upon the cast. “Actually she said she could, but…I told her I wanted to come back here.”

            Melisande stared. “Why?”

            Self-conscious, he studied Talia’s curious face, his left hand coming across to caress her fleshy cheek, drawing another smile from the girl. “I couldn’t leave you two here.” When Melisande began to protest, he quickly continued, “And I didn’t want to put your mother in danger. After all you’ve told me about your father—and the mere fact his own daughter is here—well, who’s to say what he would have done to your mother if he had found out she had helped me? They think I’m a criminal, after all. And if I had accepted her help and your father found out, I can’t believe things would have ended well for me either.”

            Melisande considered this, troubled. “All the same, I wish you would have taken that chance.”

            “Like this?” He gestured to his broken body. “I don’t even know if I’ll heal properly. Hard to know if I could even work, if I had stayed there. Then what? Besides,” he shook his head, “like I said, I couldn’t leave you here, not for anything. Perhaps someday I will be strong enough, and I can make the climb again.”

            “Oh, Bane…”

            “I was all the way to the top. If not for the rain, I could have made it.”

            “I can climb,” Talia chirped. “I won’t fall.”

            Bane returned her grin and rubbed the bristly hair on the top of her head.

            “Did you tell her?” Melisande asked. “My mother…did you tell her?” She glanced pointedly at Talia.

            “No. I didn’t know if you had told her in your letter, so I thought it best not to chance it.”

            Melisande sighed with relief. “No, I had not told her. I wish I could have, but…”

            Bane made sure no one was close to his cell before quietly saying, “She sent you something.” He reached beneath the blanket, into his loose-fitting pants, and withdrew the pouch.

            “What is it, Ba-ba?”

            He passed it through the bars. “It’s a gift from your grandmother.”

            “For me?”

            “For you and your mother.”

            Melisande loosened the drawstring and gasped at the money inside.

            “If it’s used wisely,” Bane said, “that will go a long ways. I was thinking you should save some of it, in case there’s ever a shortage, like with the medicine before.”

            Melisande tightened the drawstring again and slipped the bag under the blanket on her charpoy. “Something tells me that money is not just for us, but for you as well, as it should be. You can’t fool me, Bane. I know my mother would show her appreciation for all you’ve done for us. She is a very honorable woman.”

            “She is indeed.”

            Talia snuggled as close to him as the cast allowed, his right arm awkwardly around her, keeping her from falling off the charpoy. There was barely enough room for his unwieldy form, let alone two, but he did not mind at all.

            “We’re going to take care of you, Ba-ba,” Talia said with determined seriousness. “And no one’s going to hurt you again.”

            “Again?”

            “Yes, that bad man, that Omar. He made you fall.”

            “Now, hush,” Melisande scolded. “There’s no proof of that.”

            “But that’s what Hans said,” Talia continued defiantly, a flash of spirit sparking her blue eyes. Her obvious hatred of Alam surprised Bane for one so young. “Hans punished him.”

            “Now that’s enough,” Melisande insisted stronger. “Hans didn’t do anything; it was an accident.”

            “Accident my ass,” came Gola’s dry laugh. “I think ol’ Omar knows how to walk up and down steps without _falling_.”

            To Melisande, Bane said, “What happened?”

            “Omar fell down,” Talia said with an impish grin, “out there.” She pointed toward the stepwell. “His legs broke.”

            “ _Habibi_ ,” Melisande reproached her. “We don’t gloat over someone getting hurt.”

            “But when Ba-ba got hurt, Go-a said—”

            “It doesn’t matter what Gola said. You should always be kind.”

            “But Omar hurt Ba-ba.”

            As the brief argument continued, Bane noticed how Melisande suddenly would not meet his gaze. The way she overly protested her daughter’s pleasure over Omar Alam’s misfortune also stirred his curiosity. A line from _Hamlet_ jumped into his thoughts: “The lady dost protest too much, methinks.”

            When she had finally cowed Talia into muttering obedience, Bane waited for Melisande to look at him. She did not, however, instead getting to her feet.

            “Are you hungry, Bane? I was just about to make us something when we heard you had returned.”

            He withheld his answer on purpose, forcing Melisande to finally look at him. Again, her gaze quickly fell away, and color rose to her cheeks, her fingers nervously playing with the edge of her _shemagh_. He knew then that his suspicions were correct: Hans may have indeed been responsible for propelling Omar Alam to his ruin, but it had been Melisande who had encouraged, if not impelled, the German to act. Though her desire to avenge him pleased Bane, he knew that if he could figure out Melisande’s part in the retribution, then so could other inmates. And such an incursion into the prison’s internal balance, such audacity and vengefulness on the part of a _woman_ , a creature whose very existence was frustration in and of itself, was a dangerous road for Melisande to have started down.


	59. Chapter 59

            Bane’s weeks of recovery passed with maddening sluggishness. He got out of bed as often as the doctor allowed, remaining mostly in his cell, though the restriction nearly drove him mad. How did Melisande do it, day after day, never leaving her cell since that fateful night in the shaft? To break the monotony, Assad allowed him to go into the stepwell, but only if he or Hans accompanied him. To enforce his rules, Assad had confiscated Bane’s key.

            Talia stayed with him as much as her mother allowed, her chatter helping to buoy his spirits. Whatever he needed help in doing, she was instantly on duty. Even when he exercised by walking in his cell, she held his hand, certain that he would fall without her aid.

            “Ba-ba, if you fall, you’ll be like a turtle on his back,” she giggled. “How will you get up without me?”

            Once the casts were removed, Bane began a long journey of therapy under Hans’s guidance.

            “Your back will always be your weakest point,” the German said. “So over time we will strengthen your core.”

            Bane pushed himself as much as allowed, eager to regain his strength and thus his confidence. Only Talia regretted his renewed physical activity, for then she was relegated to her cell while he was working with Hans or out on one of his many walks. Such disappointments led to an endless stream of requests to her mother that she be allowed to accompany Bane, insisting that he needed her so he would not fall down. Melisande, of course, did not subscribe to her manipulations, no matter how much Talia begged and cajoled. The child’s badgering often drove Gola and Abrams from their cells, the latter sometimes dragging Bane back to his cell just to appease Talia so he could have some peace.

            As time slipped by and Bane grew stronger, he found that the pain—while lessening—doggedly clung to him. The dankness of the pit often aggravated his condition, but he tried not to show his discomfort to anyone. His movements were not as fluid as they had been before the fall, the range of motion in his neck diminished, his gait becoming a bit lumbering. When he reflected upon the clinic doctor’s begrudging treatment of him, he figured the man had not been concerned with performing his best work.

            One of the things that contributed to this belief was the rather haphazard scarring left behind. Though Bane had no way of viewing his back, all he needed was to see the expression on Melisande’s face when the Minerva cast had been removed to know that the sight was unpleasant. Yet with Talia, the scars often fascinated her.

            “Does it hurt, Ba-ba?” she had asked while gently sponging the incision under the doctor’s supervision shortly after the stitches had been taken out.

            “No,” he lied.

            When she was finished, she kissed the incision once, like he sometimes did when she had fallen and scraped herself. “There,” she mimicked him. “Now it will be all better.”

            But, as the months passed, Bane eventually accepted that he would never again be “all better.”

#

            The golden glow from Bane’s brazier burnished Talia’s face, and its flickers of light danced in her eyes as she read aloud. Along with the fire, a nearby candle provided illumination, set on the floor in front of where Bane sat cross-legged on a mat, Talia in his lap. She was reading a now-familiar children’s book that Maysam’s money had purchased, one she read clearly in Arabic, a task no doubt made easier by the mere fact that they both had the story nearly memorized after all these months of reading it. But it was a favorite of Talia’s, about a princess in a far off land. He loved listening to her small, musical voice, imagining that she, too, were a princess who wanted for nothing. Her Arabic—like her English—was flawless for a five-year-old, and though she was just learning to read, she already showed promise. Any words she did not know in her storybook were quickly clarified by Bane, but such assistance often received a rebuke.

            Talia yawned wide, and he thought she might finally be ready to return to her cell and go to bed. Melisande was already in her charpoy, lying on her side beneath her husband’s blanket, facing them, but she, too, was still awake, listening to her daughter, a proud, contented smile just touching her lips. But Talia did not give in to her fatigue; she read onward, now and then calling Bane’s attention to one of the illustrations and turning her face up to him with the reflection of her mother’s smile. His back ached from sitting on the hard floor, but he hesitated to move away from the brazier, for the night was particularly cold. He pulled Talia’s _shemagh_ over her head, tucking it tightly around her neck. His arms drew her even closer into his warmth, and he tugged the blanket more snuggly around them.

            The prison lay relatively quiet. Gola snored already, but Abrams was silent, and Bane figured he, too, was enjoying Talia’s story. Abstractly, Bane wondered if Abrams had any children. The man had never shared anything about his family, even after all these years together, and if Bane ever asked, he was met with stony silence. Abrams had never shown any malice toward Talia as some of the other nearby prisoners did whose sleep had often been disturbed by the child over the past five years. Yet neither had Abrams ever reached out to Talia, verbally or physically. He simply watched her, sometimes unable to hide a smile or brief laugh at her antics. Bane hoped that one day Talia’s innocent presence would shake something loose in the man, and he would open up more and thus satisfy Bane’s curiosity.

            When Talia neared the end of the book, she yawned again, her eyes half closed.

            Melisande softly called, “Time for bed now, _habibi_.”

            “Not yet, Mama.”

            “Bane is tired; let him sleep.”

            “I’m almost done with the story. Bane wants to hear the end.” She looked up at him with a private grin, silently soliciting his aid in her cause.

            It was only recently that she had started to call him by his name, and Bane had to admit that he missed the endearing quality that rang through her childish, “Ba-ba.” The change was an unsettling reminder that Talia was growing up…all too swiftly.

            “You may read till the end,” he said, “if your mother agrees. I am not as sleepy as you, little mouse.”

            She squirmed with pleasure. “Please, Mama. He’s not sleepy.”

            “Very well. Finish your story.”

            Once Talia was through, Bane took the book from her, for he knew she would delay by flipping back through the pages and talking about the pictures. She surprised him by surrendering the book without a fight. He expected her to get up, but instead she lingered in his embrace.

            Sleepily she murmured, “Let me stay with you tonight, Bane.”

            He chuckled, having heard this request many times. “You must go back to your mother so you can keep her warm.”

            “But I can keep you warm, too.”

            “I know; you already are, but now it is your mother’s turn. Up you go.” He tried to lift her onto her feet, but she kept herself limp.

            “I’m too sleepy,” she insisted. “I have to stay here.”

            “Don’t make a fuss, child,” Melisande commanded. “It’s too late for games.”

            Talia groaned dramatically and crawled out of Bane’s lap, but before Bane could gather her into his arms to carry her out, she scrambled for his charpoy. Giggling at her own cleverness, she quickly burrowed under the blankets. Melisande admonished her and tried to pull the covers from her daughter, but Talia had a tight grip upon them, still giggling, muffled now.

            “Let me stay here tonight, Mama. Just this once. Please.”

            Tired of this battle, Melisande looked to Bane, surprising him.

            He nodded. “It’s fine.”

            With a defeated sigh, Melisande lay back upon her pillow, unable to hide a smile when Talia’s head popped out from beneath the blankets with a winning grin.

            “Thank you, Mama.”

            “Just this once,” Melisande warned.

            Bane added fuel to the brazier before retiring. Talia squirmed to make space for him. With her there, he would have room only to sleep on his side, but since his back surgery that was his preferred position anyway.

            “Now no giggling all night,” Melisande admonished. “Let Bane sleep.”

            As usual, they slept in their clothes—the only way to attempt keeping the cold at bay. Besides his pants, shirt, and tunic—the latter Bane removed to use as an extra layer atop the blankets—Bane also wore a sarong, a garment that he had purchased with Maysam’s money, one of the few things he had allowed from the fund, though Melisande had vehemently insisted he take whatever he needed. He crawled beneath the blankets, facing Melisande, and Talia tucked herself into the curve of his body, an old hand at spooning for maximum warmth. Bane wrapped his arms around her, and she giggled again.

            The sensation of another body beneath his blankets instantly transported him back to his childhood when he and his mother used to huddle together through the long, black nights. Having someone here again made him realize not simply the creature comfort offered but also the emotional solace. With a teasing growl against Talia’s _shemagh_ , he drew her closer, making her laugh.

            “Hush,” he said with a smile.

            Her hands gently gripped his arms. “Bane,” she whispered.

            “What?”

            “In the morning, are you going with Doctor?”

            “On rounds, you mean?”

            “Yes.”

            “Will you see that man?”

            “Which man?”

            “The new one.”

            “Oh…probably so. He was sick today, so the doctor will want to check on him.”

            The new prisoner had arrived yesterday, an Afghani mercenary. Bane had watched him descend through the shaft, a black shadow against the glaring background of the washed out sky. But he had not approached the man, for he was otherwise occupied in Hans’s cell, working out.

            His first interaction with the prisoner had come earlier today when he had accompanied Doctor Assad on rounds. They found the Afghani lying abed with a strong fever, moaning words in his native tongue.

            “How long has he been this way?” Assad had asked Greyson, who lived in an adjacent cell.

            The recalcitrant American had just returned from somewhere and appeared eager to leave again, having seen the state of his neighbor. “I dunno,” he told the doctor. “Sometime last night I heard him groanin’. Son of a bitch shouldn’t have been put down here if he has something catchy.”

            “He was not like this when he arrived,” Assad said, as if defending his routine, initial examination of the newcomer from the previous day. “He had only spoken of fatigue.”

            “Well,” Greyson said, pulling his _shemagh_ up over his mouth and nose, “look at the motherfucker now.”

            Talia’s question drew Bane back to the present: “Is he a bad man?”

            “Must be if he was sent here.”

            “Go to sleep,” Melisande shushed her daughter.

            “Someday,” Talia said to him, “I’m going to go with you and Doctor.”

            “Not unless you behave and go to sleep like your mother told you.”

            Talia wriggled to get comfortable, then sighed and relaxed at last. She started to whisper something, but sleep swiftly overtook her, and the words trailed off. Melisande smiled in amusement, reaching through the bars to tug the blankets nearly over Talia’s head. Bane grinned back. Then they lay quiet for a time, their gazes joined. He expected her to close her eyes, but she did not, and he found that he had to look away, suddenly self-conscious.

            “Remember when you took me to see the stars?” Melisande whispered.

            “Of course. I’ll never forget it.”

            “Sometimes, trapped in here, I wonder if they are still there…the stars.”

            He frowned ruefully. “You’ll see them again one day. If I’m not able to get us out of here, perhaps your mother will. You must always remember that she’s trying.”

            Melisande nodded against her thin pillow. “I know she is.” Her attention drifted to Talia’s face. “Someday you will make a wonderful father.”

            The connotations brought heat to Bane’s face.

            “Seeing the two of you now…how safe she feels with you… That night when you and I were looking at the stars, and I asked you to protect her… If something were ever to happen to me, here or outside of here, she would trust you, no doubt more than her own father because of you being here while she’s so young.”

            “She will trust him, too, once they meet,” Bane insisted.

            “But will she love him?”

            “Of course she will.”

            Melisande smiled sadly and withdrew her hand from Talia. “I hope so.” A frown marred her beauty. “Sometimes I can’t remember his face. I try, but…”

            “I know. That happens to me, too, when I try to remember my mother. And when I can’t picture her, I feel…guilty somehow.”

            “Yes.”

            Her voice trailed away, and he forced his gaze back to her, found her studying him so profoundly that his breath caught. For a moment he recalled his hope that she would one day desire him, but then he berated himself; surely he was seeing only what he wanted to see in her dark eyes. And if there was something, no doubt it was nothing more than loneliness stirred by the absence of her daughter’s warm, soothing presence in her bed. How he wished they could all be together, the bars between them removed, three bodies to share warmth, their blankets and fuel conjoined.

            Quickly he pushed away these crazy thoughts before his body could betray him—not something he would want to explain to Talia should she awake.

            “It’s just this place,” he murmured to Melisande in an effort to console her. “It poisons our thoughts; it tries to rob us of anything good, including our memories. We have to fight against it, in any way we can.”

            “How?”

            “By talking about them, remembering them. By believing you will see them again.”

            Tears had crept into Melisande’s eyes, revealed as a vague shimmer in the dim glow of their braziers. “Oh, Bane,” she breathed, barely heard, “that’s just it—I don’t believe it anymore. I want to…I try, for _her_ sake, but I can’t…I can’t.”

            Impulsively he reached through the bars, brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek, gently pushed her hair over her ear beneath the fold of her _shemagh_. Talia stirred, murmuring their names. Bane withdrew his hand, and Melisande hastily blinked back her tears, using her _shemagh_ to erase the trace of those that had trickled down her face to her pillow.

            “Go back to sleep, baby,” she soothed.

            “It’s all right,” Bane whispered into Talia’s ear.

            “I’m cold.”

            “Cold?” Bane tried to tease. “How can you be cold? You’re like a small furnace. Here, let’s put you on my other side, closer to the fire.” Bane did not want to turn his back on Melisande, but he had little choice if he wanted to keep Talia warm.

            As he struggled the child across him, Talia groaned. “Sing me a song, Ba-ba,” she said dreamily while he rearranged their blankets.

            His neck injury prevented him from looking over his shoulder at Melisande, to apologize for ending their conversation. Yet when she spoke, he could tell she understood, perhaps was even relieved that she did not have to continue revealing her vulnerabilities, her doubts.

            “Yes, Bane,” she softly said. “Sing us your mother’s lullaby.”


	60. Chapter 60

            “You have the wingspan of a condor,” Hans said the next morning at the pool as he watched Bane shrug back into his shirt after washing. “Before too long you just might be taking on Yemi.”

            “Yemi?” Bane laughed boldly. “Who says I won’t go straight for you?”

            Of course that brought peals of laughter from the German.

            Bane was twenty years old now, a young man with a mind and body much older. Though he had long limbs, he no longer felt awkward or gangly. Everything had filled in—and would fill in more—giving him a formidable stature, standing easily at six feet.

            Doctor Assad met Bane at his cell upon his return from the pool. Heading out on rounds, their first patient was the new prisoner. Bane heard the man coughing before they were even within sight. A deep, disturbing, moist sound.

            All of the cells near the Afghani were empty. Bane suddenly understood the edginess in the prison atmosphere that he had sensed the minute he had awoke. The men who had been in the stepwell when he had gone there to wash before breakfast had all worn their _shemaghs_ like masks. The first waves of fear. Bane knew that if Assad simply left the new prisoner’s door unlocked, the Afghani would be murdered within the hour; that is, if anyone was brave enough to risk exposure to whatever ailed the man.

            “Stay outside,” Assad said.

            Normally Bane would ignore such a demand but, thinking of Talia and Melisande, he obeyed. Assad bent over the patient, asked questions, and checked his vital signs. The Afghani barely had the strength to speak in his imperfect Arabic so the doctor could understand. Then he was wracked by the coughing again, and this time his hand came away from his mouth red with blood.

            Assad spoke a few more words to the man, offering him comfort, telling him that he would return shortly with medicine, then he moved quickly back into the corridor.

            “What is it?” Bane asked.

            “My best guess is pneumonic plague.”

            Unwittingly Bane took a step back, eyes wide upon the Afghani.

            “I must fetch the streptomycin,” Assad said as they started back down the corridor. “Hopefully we are not too late, but I fear we may be. You will tell Hans to spread the word that everyone must wear cover over their faces as a precaution. I will isolate the patient as best I can in his cell.” He paused for a moment, his thoughts clearly going in a multitude of troubling directions.

            “You and I have been exposed,” Bane pointed out the obvious, attempting to fight the panic that tried to grip him.

            “Yes, and that is why we must medicate ourselves directly.” As they neared the shaft, he halted long enough to take Bane by the arm, his expression grave. “To be safe, you should not physically interact with the child. The youngest and the oldest, of course, will be the most susceptible if this spreads. You should move into my cell for at least forty-eight hours to isolate yourself.” He continued their urgent march back toward his cell.

            The doctor’s words terrified him. Pneumonic plague, if not treated within the first twenty-four hours, was most often deadly. In the stale, poorly ventilated environment of the pit, such a disease could wipe out the entire population, especially since their supply of antibiotics would certainly not stretch far enough to ensure the health of every prisoner.

            “We should give the antibiotic to _her_ …to _them_ ,” Bane quietly said, glancing around to make sure no one was within hearing distance.

            “We cannot administer the drug to anyone who was not directly exposed or who does not show the symptoms; we do not have that luxury. You know that, Bane.”

            “But…we slept together last night.”

            “And whose poor judgment led to that?”

            Bane frowned.

            “I’m sorry, Bane. We will just have to wait and see.” Assad glanced at him with a rueful smile. “Don’t worry—I will watch the two of them closely.”

            “But you could be infected, too.”

            “Yes. But one of us must treat the sick, if there are others. I will isolate myself as much as possible otherwise for these next two days.”

            “I want you to give my dosage to them.”

            “Bane, you are the one who has had direct exposure. Not them.”

            “But what if _I_ exposed them?”

            “We will have to wait and see.” Before Bane could explode in frustration, Assad again touched his arm, spoke softly, “You know I will do whatever I can for them.”

#

            The Afghani was dead by the next day, his body wrapped in a blanket, and lowered into the solitary hole where it would remain until the next resupply when it could be hoisted to the surface. Terror blanketed the whole prison as everyone waited to see if the disease would spread.

            Bane fretted away two days in Assad’s cell along with the doctor. The prisoners who lived adjacent had fled their cells, just as Greyson and the others near the Afghani had fled theirs, sleeping in the corridors or in the stepwell until it became apparent that neither showed any signs of the illness. And once the streptomycin had been in their system for forty-eight hours, Bane finally ventured out without the threat of other prisoners killing him out of fear of the contagion’s spread. By then, the inmate who lived on the opposite side of the Afghani’s cell from Greyson had contracted the fever. Assad immediately administered the antibiotic, but even that did nothing to quell the dread among the population.

            Melisande and Talia were greatly relieved to see Bane when he emerged from quarantine. Bane, however, still felt unnerved by what his close contact might have brought down upon them.

            “We missed you,” Talia said with a smile as bright as the noonday sun. She was standing at the bars between their cells. One hand reached through, fingers beckoning.

            He frowned at her gesture, shaking his head. “Just to be safe, it’s best if I don’t come too close for now.”

            Talia’s expression fell, and her hand drooped. “Why not?”

            “I want to be certain I’m not contagious.”

            “But Mama said you took medicine.”

            “I did, but I want to make sure it works before I can be close to you again. All right?”

            Her shoulders slumped, and she answered, “All right,” in a sad voice that tugged at his emotions, emotions that had been raw ever since the Afghani had been diagnosed. He exchanged a wistful smile with Melisande who sat on her charpoy, her crocheting in her lap, untouched since she had seen him coming down the corridor. After his absence, her beauty struck him with exceeding profoundness today, and he remembered the feel of her soft cheek beneath his fingers from the other night. Her hair, unbraided, framed her face like dark gossamer.

            With deep reluctance, Bane dragged his charpoy to the middle of his cell.

            “Abrams said there is another man sick.” The worry in her voice matched a worn line across her forehead.

            “Yes, but he was treated right away, so we will hope for the best.”

            “How much antibiotic is there?”

            “Enough,” he lied.

            “Enough for everyone?”

            He forced a tight smile, saw how Talia was listening as intently as her mother, no doubt remembering her own illness from when she was younger. “Enough,” he repeated, then turned away to light his brazier.

            That night he did not sleep well, tossing and turning, troubled by dreams of Melisande and Talia being sick, dying, leaving him alone here once again. In the deepest hour of the night, he lay wide awake, wondering if he had truly been a fool for returning to prison after Maysam had offered him freedom. Then Talia’s voice drifted through the blackness, murmuring as she dreamed, and he knew he had indeed chosen the right path, the only path.

            The next morning when the doctor came by at the start of his rounds, Bane offered to accompany him, but Assad convinced him to wait another day.

            “Doctor,” Talia said with sad eyes, “my tummy hurts.”

            “Have you eaten, child?”

            “Not yet.”

            Melisande stepped away from the basin at the rear of her cell where she had been washing her face. Talia’s complaint brought instant concern.

            “Perhaps your tummy is just hungry,” Assad said with a manufactured cheerfulness.

            As Talia solemnly shook her head, Bane caught the quick flicker of a mischievous smile, making him relax. She was not sick, simply longing for attention. Bane smiled to himself then made sure Melisande saw that he was on to Talia’s game by giving her a wink.

            “Well,” Bane said as he left his cell, “I’m sure the doctor will check you over while I’m in the stepwell. Then, when I come back, perhaps we can play some checkers.”

            Talia instantly brightened, her face lifting, but then she realized her lapse and quickly resumed a morose expression for the doctor’s benefit. Assad exchanged a knowing look with Bane as he unlocked her cell.

            “Very well,” Assad sighed. “Let me take a look at your tummy, little one.”

            Bane started for the stepwell, passing Gola’s cell where the Pakistani sat talking with two of his countrymen. He tossed a malevolent glance at Bane, but Bane ignored him and headed into the shaft. Two at a time, he took the steps downward to the pool.

            The shaft was unusually crowded for this time of day, all because of the fear that had flushed the inmates from the dark corridors. He noticed Aboud and Omar Alam along with two other Arabs near the top of the stepwell, not far from Melisande’s cell, all talking, apparently debating something of importance, their words accentuated by waving hands and jabbing fingers. Even with most of their faces covered, he easily knew them by form and mannerism. Omar stood with most of his weight on his right leg. He, like Gola, walked with a noticeable limp now, thanks to Hans’s alleged shove down the steps. Without the material on hand to make plaster casts when Alam had suffered his fall nearly two years ago, Doctor Assad had used crude splints. While the right leg had satisfactorily mended, the left had not. Perhaps the fall itself had discouraged him from challenging Bane again in any way, or perhaps he felt his physical handicap would render him inferior in a fight. Whatever the cause, he steered clear of Bane, though Bane was not foolish enough to think that certain scuffles he had had with men like Aboud since then were not encouraged by Omar Alam.

            Just as Bane dipped his cupped hands into the pool, a man’s shouts drew his attention upward. The words were muffled by the corridor from which the voice flew, but soon an inmate came running into view. He paused near one of the pillars at the top of the stepwell and called out, “Where is the doctor?”

            Aboud answered, pointing toward Melisande’s cell, and the man rushed in that direction. Conversations throughout the stepwell instantly changed to open speculation and concern for what might be the cause behind the prisoner’s alarmed search. Bane hastily splashed his face and stood, listened to the man’s distant, agitated voice, his words now indistinct. Within an instant the prisoner was rushing back in the direction from which he had come, Assad in his wake. Something stirred within Bane, a cold grip upon his stomach, twisting. He hurried for the closest steps.

            Halfway up, he heard Melisande scream.


	61. Chapter 61

            Bane saw them even before he reached Melisande’s cell. Four men. _Inside_ _with her_. A wild, blurring fight as she resisted them, dark hair flying about her, thin arms flailing, all the while screaming for her child to flee.

            From all directions other prisoners came running. But not to rescue, Bane knew.

            Just as he reached the open door, Talia darted toward the attackers from behind, knife in hand, Bane’s knife, the knife he had given her mother the day he had attempted his last climb. She plunged it into the closest inmate’s back—Gola.

            In one horrific split second, there amidst the struggle and shouts, Bane’s eyes met Melisande’s. Eyes wide with terror, terror for her daughter. That look, that pleading look for Bane to save the child, to protect her as he had promised, no matter the cost.

            With a roaring curse, Gola wheeled upon Talia, but Bane snatched her away. In one fluid movement he turned toward the door, his left arm swinging with powerful force, knocking Gola back.

            “Mama!” Talia shrieked, trying to break free of Bane’s grip. “Mama!”

            Other prisoners reached the cell just as he fled, a pouring rush of mad shouts and shoving hands, each trying to get inside first. Bane held Talia as tightly as he could, shouldering his way through the onslaught, battling upstream against the flow, Talia fighting him, screaming for her mother, deafening him to everything but the echo of Melisande’s cries.

            He circled the shaft, reached the far side, started downward, his mind spinning. He needed to get Talia as far away as possible, down into one of the corridors off the pool, deep into quiet darkness where she could not hear what was happening, where _he_ could not hear. But when he reached the pool, his strength left him, his knees buckled. He caught himself against the steps, shaking uncontrollably now.

            How could he leave Melisande? How could he abandon her to those ravaging wolves? Yet…already…he knew it was too late. It had been too late the minute Gola had gotten inside. But…how…?

            Talia sobbed hysterically now, no longer able to physically resist or even to speak. Drained, Bane slowly slipped downward to sit, his back against the stone of one of the staircases. Talia tried to turn in his arms to look in the direction in which men were still streaming, but Bane’s hand cradled the back of her head, pressed her cheek against his shoulder. He softly endeavored to shush her, all the while trying to calm his own inner panic, for her sake. His eyes remained glued to the distant bars of Melisande’s cell. So many men there. They were fighting one another now, caught up in a frenzy to get at Melisande, fists flying, curses echoing throughout the shaft. Bane saw the doctor trying to push his way through from the direction in which he had gone with the other prisoner minutes ago. But the men closest to him turned upon him, struck him down.

            If Melisande still cried out, she could not be heard over the melee.

            The knife was still in Talia’s hand, pressed between them, the handle digging into Bane, but he barely felt it. How he wanted to grab it and charge back up there, plunge the blade into each and every one of them, slaughter as many as he could before they could slaughter him. But no, he could not leave Talia. They could easily turn against her in their fevered insanity, whether they believed her to be a male child or not. Those who were not able to rape Melisande would be filled with a new kind of fury, a frustrated, blind desire for release of any kind, a bloodlust all too evident in that brawl taking place in the corridor now, spilling over into the shaft.

            Without realizing it, Bane began to softly sing into Talia’s ear, holding her tighter than he had ever held her before. He forced the tremble from his voice, tried to focus on the words, closed his eyes against the nightmare sights and sounds. His mother’s lullaby. Instead of his voice, he heard hers, felt her comforting love, her protection, her guidance. Sobs still wracked Talia’s small form, but she quieted as he sang.

            Someone touched Bane’s shoulder, and he jumped as if from an electric shock, instinctively turning his shoulders to shield Talia.

            “It’s me, Bane,” came Hans’s voice.

            Bane glared at him, expecting the worst as he pushed away from the man, tried to stand with his awkward bundle. He pulled the knife from Talia’s hand, brandished it. “Leave us alone.”

            “Jesus, Bane,” the German said with deep concern, his attention flashing toward Melisande’s cell instead of remaining on the blade. “Come with me. You aren’t safe here.”

            Bane managed to get to his feet, but his legs still felt like rubber, and he knew he would not get far if he tried to run.

            Hans held out a hand in supplication. “Bane…it’s _me_.”

            The numbness of shock held Bane in place, staring at Hans, unable to decide.

            “There’s no time to waste,” the German insisted. “Come back to my cell.” As if to convince Bane of his trustworthiness, he started to turn away. Waited, arm still extended in invitation.

            “Ba-ba,” Talia choked out. “I’m scared.”

            “I know,” he whispered in her ear, kissed her. “I know.” _So am I_.

            “Bane,” Hans said, his eyes again flicking meaningfully toward Melisande’s cell.

            Though Bane searched for the tiniest hint of deception, the smallest glimmer of savagery in the big man’s gaze, he found none, realized he was indeed being foolish not to trust his friend after all these years. Some of the tension left his muscles, relaxed his grip on the knife. He nodded, bringing relief to Hans’s angular face. Quickly the German led them away.

#

            With his cell door safely locked behind them, Hans paced in agitation, one hand rubbing noisily across the stubble on his jaw, eyes darting from Bane on his charpoy to the nightmare taking place above and across the shaft from them. Bane could see that Hans had the same insane desire as he to charge up there and kill whoever got in his way. But, as usual, Hans had enough level sense for both of them, and he remained where he was.

            Talia still wept but she was quieter, no longer trying to resist Bane’s embrace and in fact clinging to him now, as if she might never let go. He rocked gently to and fro, whispering over and over any possible vain consolation he could conjure.

            “I wanna see Mama.”

            His close hold on her purposefully kept her from looking into his eyes, for he feared that he would break down if she did. And he could not do that in front of her, not now, not ever.

            “I know you do, sweetheart. So do I.”

            “Why didn’t you stop those bad men? They were hurting Mama.”

            The agony of her question nearly choked him, and he closed his eyes against the pain. Again he fought for control of his emotions, had only the strength to whisper his answer, “I promised your mama that I would keep you safe. I had to get you away from there or they would have hurt you, too.”

            When Hans heard Talia’s question, he had drifted over, crouched in front of them. His large hand swallowed up one of Talia’s, and she turned to him in surprise, for he had never touched her before; Melisande had forbade any such contact, and Bane had enforced her wishes.

“You shouldn’t scold Bane, _mein_ _Lieber_ ; he did the right thing, the only thing. He could not fight them all, and if he had tried, those men would have hurt all three of you.”

            As if ashamed, Talia could not look at either of them, her long lashes thick with tears. “Why did they hurt Mama?”

            “They’re bad men,” Bane said, regretting the inadequacy of such an explanation. “It’s difficult to know why they do the things they do.”

            “Can I go see her now?”

            “No, it’s not safe.”

            Hans returned to the front of the cell, watched the continuing orgy of violence above them.

            Bane kissed Talia’s bare head. “Why don’t you lie down here on Hans’s charpoy?”

            “I’m not sleepy.”

            “I know, but you’re shaking. The blankets will warm you up.” Afraid she might slip into shock, he unwound his _shemagh_ and draped it over and around her. Then he used it to wipe away her tears. He forced a smile and tapped her nose once. “You were very brave trying to help your mother.”

            “Where’s my knife?”

            “Right here.” He touched the weapon where it lay on the other side of him. When he had returned to the pit after his surgery, he had convinced Melisande to keep the blade. She had maintained that they would have no need of it, there in their cell, but Bane had insisted. Once Talia was old enough to understand, she carried it with her when she went to the doctor’s cell with Bane, hidden beneath her tunic, its sheath hooked onto her waistband, as Bane had carried it since Osito’s demise. Though the distance between their cells and Assad’s was not great, Bane knew Melisande found comfort in knowing the knife was with them, and Talia took great pride in bearing it, partly because it had been Bane’s and partly because she felt mature and powerful doing so.

            “I hurt Gola,” she murmured without regret, her fingers toying with the edge of the _shemagh_.

            “I’m glad you hurt him.”

            “You are?” She looked up at him, her blue eyes dark with sorrow but shedding fewer tears now.

            “Yes. You were trying to protect your mother.”

            “Gola was very angry with me.”

            “Don’t worry about him. I won’t let him hurt you.”

            Her gaze slipped around him, started upward toward the shouting, milling men in the shaft. Bane shifted his body to block her view. “Here now…let’s get you warmed up. Crawl under the blankets for a bit.”

            “But I want to see Mama.”

            “I told you—it’s not safe right now. Once it’s quiet again…” He trailed off, having no idea what to say or how he would ever explain things. The chances of Melisande surviving were slim at best, and after what had been done to her, Bane knew that death would be a blessing to her. Yet to contemplate the idea nauseated him, chilled him to the very marrow of his bones.

            Reluctantly Talia allowed him to tuck her beneath the blankets, but she would not let go of his hand. In a thin, frightened voice, she said, “Lie down with me.”

            Bane glanced over his shoulder at Hans who stood with tattooed arms folded across his thick chest. The German nodded. Bane took off his shoes and slipped under the covers, lying on his side to further block Talia’s view of the shaft. She snugged herself against his chest as he folded his arms around her. Her trembling had worsened while his had lessened. She felt as cold as a brick of ice. Briskly he rubbed her extremities.

            He had just gotten her relatively warm when someone came running up to Hans’s cell.

            “Christ, Hans.” Abrams’s rushed voice. “Are they all right?”

            Bane lifted his head, started to sit up, but Talia clung to him, anchored him, whimpering, “No…”

            Blood and bruising made Abrams’s face a disturbing mess, his _shemagh_ gone, his short hair sticking up in tufts, some of it missing in patches, the scalp red and raw. When he saw Bane and Talia, his shoulders slumped with relief. “Jesus,” he breathed, briefly looking away, blinking. To Hans, “The doc…they beat the shit out of him. He’s in bad shape. I dragged him out of there, but… Can you help me get him to his cell?”

            Bane pushed the blankets back, but Hans discouraged him with a shake of his head. “Stay here. We’ll take care of the doc.”

#

            The morning’s trauma and stress worked to tire Talia. That, along with the warmth of the blankets and Bane’s body, eventually relaxed her muscles and conquered her trembling while, beyond their refuge, the noise and chaos slowly died away. Bane wanted to return to Melisande’s cell, to see if by some miracle she had endured, to care for her, but even if he had the key to open Hans’s cell, he knew he could not leave Talia, especially with Hans still gone. So in a low, soft voice he sang to her again, gently stroking her back until she drifted off, dry tears encrusting her lashes, her nose in desperate need of blowing. Now, with her eyes closed to his grief, he could fight the tears no longer. He did his best to make not a sound. Soon the pillow beneath his head grew wet and uncomfortable against his face.

            He half expected other prisoners to come looking for him, the crueler ones to bait him with remarks about what they had done to Melisande, how he had been impotent to stop it. Yet no one did. Men occasionally moved past the cell, one or two even pausing, but they said nothing and moved on.

            From the stepwell, he heard no voices, no quiet buzz of conversation as was usual during the day, especially since the fear of plague had driven so many there lately. Without leaving the charpoy, he could sense the odd disposition of the whole prison. Something entirely different. As if a long-starving beast had finally found its prey, gorged itself, and now lay sated. Years and years of starvation, years and years of rage. Spent. Now nothing remained of the old order, nothing to tempt and torment them, to remind them of what they could never have, of what they had lost. Now, with it gone, it left a hole, an abyss, a black mirror that would now reflect only the harsh faces of evil men…until the day they might discover that there was still a female among them. The idea shook Bane as never before, and he unwittingly tried to draw Talia even closer, pulling a small moan from her.

            As the terrible events replayed over and over in his head, the hatred that he had had for many of the men grew, broadened, included all of them except Hans and Abrams. But what could he do? He could not avenge Melisande without the risk of losing his own life and thus leaving Talia alone. She could not survive without him, especially if the doctor’s injuries cost him his life. Although Hans might take care of her, Bane was concerned that once Hans realized her gender, he might unwittingly reveal it—or in a time of weakness exploit it—and then it was only a matter of time before Talia met her mother’s fate.

            As he studied her innocent face, the full weight of his new responsibility crashed down upon him, tightening his chest, quickening his heart until it hammered so strongly against his chest that he feared it would wake Talia. True, he had helped Melisande with Talia, but always she had her mother to feed and clothe her, to protect her there inside the false safety of their cell. Now he would have to be everything to her—provider, protector, friend, parent. In a way, he had fancied himself all those things before, yet now…now he had no choice in the matter. He had failed to keep Melisande safe; how could he protect Talia, especially as she grew older and her gender became more of a challenge to conceal?

            The sound of Hans’s key in the lock startled Bane, made him fearful, as if the man could have somehow heard his thoughts. Talia stirred in his arms. Bane hastily wiped his face then carefully started to extricate himself from the blankets. But his efforts did not go unnoticed; Talia immediately awoke. She gasped and clutched at his clothing.

            “It’s all right,” he soothed.

            “Don’t leave.” She scrambled into his arms.

            “I won’t. I promise.”

            “Can I go see Mama now?”

            Bane raised his eyes to Hans who somehow appeared older than his years and exhausted, as if he had been gone months instead of minutes. He came to the brazier and poked the coals back to life.

            “Did you go to her cell?” Bane asked.

            Frowning, Hans nodded.

            “Is she—?”

            Near a whisper, Hans said, “I’m sorry.” He came to sit next to them on the charpoy, the frame protesting their combined weight. “It’s probably for the best.”

            “Can we go now?” Talia asked.

            The oblivious, hopeful anticipation in her voice did not surprise Bane, for she knew nothing of death, would have no concept of what had truly happened. How could he explain it all to her?

            Hans seemed to sense his turmoil. “I cleaned her up the best I could and put one of the doc’s blankets over her; the bastards didn’t leave a thing behind, not even her clothes.”

            Bane’s fists clenched, his right wrist aching anew as did his back and neck from the stress. Bile climbed into his throat. Talia touched his cheek, said his name to get him to look at her, but he could not, afraid even to speak lest he explode in rage or collapse in grief.

            “I want to see Mama.” Talia tugged at his sleeve. “Bane?”

            “She should see her,” Hans gently said. “She won’t understand otherwise.”

            “Understand?” Bane said in a strangled whisper. “How can anyone understand this?”

            “I will go with you, in case there is trouble. But I think it is safe…now. Best to get it out of the way. She will have to be moved.”

            “Not down into that damn hole.”

            “There is nowhere else. We can’t take the chance of more illness.”

            “To hell with them. Let them all die. No one’s getting one drop of antibiotic. I’ll see to it.”

            His uncharacteristic display of anger caused Talia to shrink slightly away.

            Hans clamped his fingers surreptitiously around Bane’s wrist and spoke with forced calm. “Now is not the time for such talk. You will only make matters worse.”

            Bane silently berated himself for his lapse, drew Talia back into his embrace and stood.

            “Are we going to see Mama now?”

            Hans also stood, and Bane appreciated his loyalty more than ever.

            “Yes, little mouse; we’re going to see your mama.”


	62. Chapter 62

            “How is the doctor?” Bane asked as they left Hans’s cell.

            “Nothing seems broken, but he’s pretty beaten up. Concussion, no doubt. Abrams is with him for now.”

            As they climbed the stairs, Talia’s large eyes rolled in fear, searching in every direction for a threat, clinging even tighter to Bane. Though she had never been in the shaft before today, her natural curiosity and previous desire to be here were forgotten in her current state. A few of the inmates had returned to the stepwell, but no one spoke to them, seemingly exhausted from their part in the violence. Their eyes, however, followed them closely; some appeared taken aback, as if having forgotten that Melisande’s child still existed. Bane hoped that he would be able to reach his hidden knife fast enough if anyone tried to molest them.

            “Will the bad men hurt us, too?”

            “Don’t worry. I won’t let them.”

            Hans glanced back at Bane. “I got the key from the doc and locked Melisande’s door when I left her, so no one would…bother her or steal the blanket I put over her.”

            “If Assad still had the key on him, how did Gola and the others ever get inside her cell? It doesn’t make any sense.”

            Hans’s expression closed, and he turned away, said nothing.

            When they reached Bane’s cell block, any conversations coming from the cells halted. Bane felt the inmates’ gazes like rapiers against his nerves. Still no one called out to him or Talia. He hoped that somewhere deep in their souls, in a place that perhaps still harbored a scrap of humanity, they now felt a nudge of conscience when they looked upon the motherless child. Yet no doubt that was a hopeless wish.

            Gola’s cell was empty, but there was a noticeable trail of blood leading to and from it. Grim satisfaction warmed Bane. Hopefully Talia had struck something vital. Did the man have the balls to seek treatment from Assad? And would the doctor administer it?

            “Mama!” Talia called, at first eager and hopeful, then as they drew within sight of Melisande’s shrouded form, alarm raised the pitch of her voice. She struggled to be set down, but Bane refused.

            With a certain reluctance, Hans unlocked the door then stepped aside, saying, “I’ll wait.”

            Trembling again, Talia took in the sight of her home stripped of everything, including the blanket that had hung between her cell and Gola’s. All that remained were splinters that could have been from the charpoy—no doubt someone’s firewood now—and the shattered clay remains of the brazier. Even the toys Bane had carved and crocheted over the years, even the storybooks were gone.

            Now Talia’s plaintive, “Mama,” came out low, hoarse, and unsure, more in the form of a question.

            Bane—appreciating the low light for once—hoped she did not notice the bloodstains on the floor. Hans’s efforts—though genuine—had in no way been able to eradicate them.

            “Is she asleep?” Talia quavered.

            Bane remained close to the door for a moment. “Remember when the doctor let you listen to your mama’s heart through his stethoscope?”

            Talia nodded, her attention glued to Melisande as if waiting with little hope for her mother to move.

            “And he told you how our hearts keep us alive by pumping blood through our bodies?”

            Talia’s breathing increased, growing ragged with dread, her fingers kneading his shoulder.

            “But if we get sick or hurt and the heart stops beating…well, then…then we go to sleep. But we don’t wake up again.”

            She turned to him, and the tears welled up. “Is that what happened to Mama?”

            Unable to say anything more, he nodded. He drifted over to Melisande, paused to gather his strength, then lowered Talia. She clung to his hand while he knelt down beside her. As she stared at the blanket, the tears spilled over.

            Unsure how far he should go, he asked, “Do you want to see her?”

            Talia nodded, barely whispered, “Yes.”

            Swallowing hard, Bane folded the blanket back from Melisande’s face. Talia gasped at the bruises and abrasions and began to sob as she knelt down. Her hand brushed across Melisande’s forehead to her hairline; there was blood there as well, too thick and entangled for Hans to have removed. Even more blood matted the back of her head, and Bane figured that had been the death of her—a blow to her skull, perhaps when they had taken her down. Yes, he told himself, she had died quick and early, had not been aware of their violations. It had to be that way; she deserved that mercy. Perhaps her last conscious sight had been of him carrying Talia to safety, of him keeping his promise.

            “They hurt her,” Talia whimpered. “Why did they hurt her so bad?” Her gaze went to Gola’s cell. “She never hurt them.”

            Bane put his arm around her, drew her close, kissed the top of her head as he battled back his own outrage and tears, all the while staring at Melisande’s face. Even the damage they had done to her could not hide her beauty. Memories of their nights in the shaft returned to him with agonizing clarity, the feel of her body against his, her scent, the touch of her hand. His foolish, youthful dreams of them one day lying together. Those few times when the three of them had shared a fire, huddled together under their combined blankets, sharing the warmth of their bodies. The blanket…the one Ducard had given her…gone now. Bitterness choked him, and he rocked slightly back and forth as Talia wept.

            “We have to say good-bye now,” he eventually whispered in her ear. “You must be brave. That’s what she would want…from both of us.”

            “But I don’t want to say good-bye. I want her to wake up.”

            “I know, _habibi_ , but she can’t. We have to let her go.” He kissed her head again. “You will stay with me now.”

            Talia caressed Melisande’s cheek. “She’s so cold.”

            “Just her body. Her spirit is warm. She’ll never feel cold again.”

            Talia looked up at him as if unsure of the truth of his words but wanting to believe something so appealing.

            “Now say good-bye,” he softly urged.

            Talia hesitated before she bent and kissed her mother. Her tears fell upon Melisande’s cheeks, leaving the illusion that they had been shed by Melisande’s own eyes. “Good-bye,” she whispered. “I love you.”

             Bane sat there longer than he should, but he found himself unable to move, unable to speak until Talia looked up at him. Her sentiment lingered in his ears, words she had spoken to both of them many times, words he had said to her as well but, of course, never to Melisande. In fact, he had never allowed himself to even entertain the idea, but now…now the reality of his feelings for her overwhelmed him, and he bitterly regretted her dying without hearing how much she had meant to him, how she had unknowingly saved him by befriending him when she had first arrived and he had just murdered the Vulture. Without her, he had no doubt that he would have become like those who had so savagely attacked her this day. Her friendship, like his mother’s love, was what set him apart from the other prisoners.

            He gathered up some of her long hair and let it trail through his fingers as he bent toward her. His right hand caressed her cheek, and he kissed those lips that he had so often dreamed of kissing. He hovered there, just parted from her, as if the kiss could miraculously awaken her like the princess in Talia’s storybook. But her eyes remained shut, and for a final moment he pressed his cheek against hers, closed his eyes, whispered, “I love you.” Then Talia’s sobs drew his attention back to his responsibilities and forever away from his fantasies.

            He took Talia’s hand and struggled to his feet, back aching even more now. Talia remained next to her mother, making no move to stand, staring. Gently Bane drew the blanket back over Melisande’s face.

            “No,” Talia protested, pushing the fabric away.

            Bane frowned, knew things would only worsen if he allowed Talia to remain any longer. When he reached for her, she shoved his hands away then tried to slip her arms around her mother’s neck. Moving quicker now and with determination, Bane pulled her away amidst continued protests. She kicked him and struck his head and shoulders, contorting her body in an effort to free herself. He left the cell, pulled her closer so her blows had no range.

            As Hans wrapped the blanket around Melisande and carried her away, Bane took Talia into his own cell. Grief quickly drained her strength, and she was barely able to cling to him as he sat upon his charpoy. Slowly he rocked her, holding her as he had in the shaft, softly consoling her. Then he stood to walk in circles around his brazier until her sobs gradually lessened.

            As she quieted, his thoughts began to shift from bereavement to outrage, to the question of how and why. There had to be an answer, an explanation of how Gola had gotten inside Melisande’s cell. And only one man could supply such an answer.

#

            Leaving Talia alone in his cell was not an option. Not only would he fear doing such a thing in the prison’s current atmosphere, but he knew the child was far too traumatized to countenance being alone. Never in life had she been without someone. Bane easily remembered the sickening fear that had gripped him after his mother’s death, how he had wanted nothing more than to curl up beside her and remain there until death claimed him as well.

            “I must speak with the doctor,” he told her. He wrapped one of his blankets around her as she sat, trembling, upon his charpoy, the charpoy he had fortuitously moved yesterday, safely out of the reach of those who had invaded Melisande’s cell. Talia had fallen disturbingly quiet, her eyes becoming dull. He tipped her chin up in an attempt to get her to look at him. He forced a smile and kissed her. “We must be brave, remember?”

            Her nod was barely discernible, and her brief glance dropped away.

            When Abrams saw them coming down the corridor toward Assad’s cell, he stood. But when Bane met his gaze, the man oddly diverted his eyes.

            “How is he?” Bane asked as Abrams opened the door.

            “A bit fuzzy and obviously sore, but all in all he’s pretty damn lucky.”

            Assad lay on his bed, eyes closed until he heard Bane’s voice, then he struggled to raise himself on one elbow.

            “Don’t get up,” Bane said, drawing near. Abrams moved the chair he had been sitting in close to the bed for Bane.

            Assad reached to touch Talia’s arm, but the child twisted away in fear. “It’s all right,” he said hoarsely, his eyes moist with pain. “I’m so relieved to see you were not harmed.”

            Bane knew he should be concerned with the man’s health, but there was only one thing on his mind. “What happened?”

            Assad gave a soft moan and sank back against his pillow. “I tried to get to her, but they attacked me as well.”

            “No, I mean what happened with Melisande? How did they get inside her cell? You were with her when I left.”

            Assad groaned, closing his eyes, covering them with one hand. Slowly he began to shake his head.

            The tiny doubt Bane had harbored, an idea he had not wanted to entertain, forced itself to the forefront of his thoughts and grew with each passing moment in which the doctor refused to answer.

            “How did they get the key?” Bane demanded, trying to remain patient and calm with Talia still in his arms.

            “They didn’t,” Assad croaked out.

            “Then how did they get inside?”

            “Bane,” Abrams said, but Bane brusquely waved him away.

            “Tell me!”

            A slight tremor along the doctor’s jaw, his head still moving back and forth against the pillow, the hand still over his eyes. “I’m sorry, Bane… I am…so very sorry…”

            Bane grabbed the doctor’s wrist, yanked it clear of his face. “Tell us!”

            “Damn it, Bane,” Abrams tried again. “Leave him be. It doesn’t matter now.”

            “Yes, it does,” Bane snarled over his shoulder at him. Talia stirred in his arms, began to cry again.

            “Think of the kid,” Abrams said.

            Agitated, Bane got to his feet, pressing Talia close, snapped back at him, “ _Don’t_ talk to me about _the kid_ , damn you. His mother’s dead. He deserves to know why.”

            “Jarrah came to get me,” Assad said, his voice shaking, turning Bane back to him. “He said Basayev couldn’t stop coughing up blood.” His wet eyes finally met Bane’s stare, revealing in their depths and the tremble of his chin the smothering guilt and shame that overpowered even his physical pain. “I rushed from Melisande’s cell. I…” His eyes pressed shut, his face contorted with grief. “I forgot…I forgot to lock the cell behind me.”

            “You…?” Bane struggled to find his voice. “You forgot…?” For a moment he could do nothing but stare stupidly down upon the doctor as he tried to comprehend. Heat poured through his body, clenching his fists, his jaw, bulging his eyes, pressing against his lips in the form of an enraged roar that only Talia’s quiet weeping somehow managed to discourage.

            “Bane,” Abrams said, this time in a deep, resolved tone. “It’s time you go, boy. You got your answer; now you know. Let the man rest.”

            “Rest?” Bane turned upon him with bared teeth. “How could anyone rest after what he’s done? Didn’t you hear him?”

            “Yes, damn it—”

            “Didn’t you see what they did to her—those fucking animals? Because he _forgot_ to lock her door!”

            “I know, damn you, I know, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”

            “ _We_? How do I know you weren’t in on it, too?”

            Purple anger instantly colored Abrams, and he took a step toward Bane before stopping himself. “Get out of here, boy. Now. Before we do something we both regret.”

            Talia’s grip had tightened upon him, almost strangling him, her tears wetting his neck, the only sensations he could feel. He knew if she were not in his arms, he would have already killed the doctor and no doubt Abrams as well.

            “Don’t you think,” the words slipped through Abrams’s cleft lip with quiet, deadly intent as his eyes flicked to Talia, “he’s seen enough for today?”

            They stood toe to toe for an undeterminable length of time. Although Bane reminded himself over and over that he knew this man, that Abrams had done nothing but help him in the past, for that deadly, wavering instant he saw only those men who had first swarmed over Melisande.

            “Ba-ba,” Talia sniffled, sounding as she had when she had been little more than a babe. “I’m scared.” She hiccupped. “I wanna go home.”

            Abrams raised his eyebrows pointedly but did not retreat, nostrils flared, eyes unblinking.

            Bane wavered, his senses in turmoil.

            Talia pushed herself back from his shoulder and took his tense face in her hands, trying to turn him toward her. “Take me home,” she drew out the last word, her worried eyes noticing Abrams’s close proximity, his threatening visage, for the first time. She shrank back and buried her face against Bane’s neck and shoulder.

            “Go on,” Abrams said with less menace but equal force.

            Bane began to breathe again, realizing it only when he heard it whistle through his nostrils. His shoulders lowered slightly, causing Talia to squirm and grip tighter, as if afraid he might let go. Dryness burned his eyes. He blinked to ease them and glanced once at Assad who lay in utter desolation, quietly sobbing into his hands.

            Bane settled, his hand drifting up to stroke Talia’s back, her meager warmth somehow working its way into him, drawing out his anger like poison from a wound. Then at last he turned and left the cell.


	63. Chapter 63

            Gola returned to his cell only after night had swallowed up the prison and afforded him the safety to do so. Bane, lying awake on his charpoy, curled around Talia, heard the faint squeal of the door and Gola’s uneven gait. His movement, however, was different than before, slower, more laborious. The Pakistani emitted an undeniable groan as he sank to his charpoy, followed by a curse. Bane smiled grimly against his pillow. Yes, Talia’s efforts had been fruitful.

            Though Omar Alam had gone to Doctor Assad’s cell on Gola’s behalf—it was with Alam that Gola had taken refuge, the two men allies ever since Alam had suffered his broken legs—the physician had refused to treat the Pakistani’s stab wound. If Assad hoped his actions would garner Bane’s forgiveness, he was sadly mistaken. Bane would have blocked Assad’s efforts to assist Gola if the physician had chosen any other path. Without medical attention, such a wound would quickly become infected, and tetanus would set in. Bane was counting on it. A horrible death brought about by the physical torments such an infection would wreak would be far more satisfying to Bane than a quick death by his own hand. It would be fitting that Gola would die because of Talia.

            Gola, however, was but one man among dozens guilty of Melisande’s murder. Yet the prison’s system of justice would never enter into play with this crime, a crime to Bane more heinous than anything that had come before. With so many involved in the assault and the ensuing brawl that had left many injured and bloodied, no jury could be selected that was not tainted by its own individuals’ guilt. How could one judge another when he had committed the same crime?

            Talia stirred in his arms, murmuring in tenuous sleep for her mother. The day had been a long, sorrowful one spent together in Bane’s cell. He had some yarn still and had passed the time crocheting socks for Talia or reading to her, the child secure in his lap, ever fearful that he might leave her no matter how many times he assured her otherwise. Regardless of how he tried to engage her, she said little. Any unusual sound had made her jump and face the door as if expecting to be burst in upon at any moment. He had cut off a portion of his _shemagh_ to replace the one stolen from Melisande’s cell. It lay wrapped about her now as they huddled together under his blankets, the coals in his brazier just about burned out.

            He planned to remain inside for at least another day for Talia’s sake. Not only was there the threat of plague, but he knew he could not leave her; she would neither allow it nor would he forcibly subject her to such cruelty. Yet once he did emerge, she might insist on accompanying him. Without her mother here to forbid such an excursion, she very well could begin a fresh campaign. He knew, though, that she might in truth be frightened enough by the attack to never want to leave the safety of his cell. Only time would tell, but he needed to be prepared for either scenario.

            Bane rested his cheek against her head, careful not to wake her, for it had taken several hours for her to finally surrender to sleep. Though he was exhausted, he could not rest, partly because he feared possible nightmares should he sleep and partly because he could not stop thinking about Melisande and about the doctor’s unforgiveable lapse.

            A faint sound from the corridor caught Bane’s ears. Vaguely familiar. He held his breath, listened closer. A shuffled step. A whisper, barely detectable. Bane silently exhaled, then breathed in, nostrils flared, analyzing the air. The odor came to him then, instantly recognizable: Crazy Saul. Bane relaxed, sighed, wondered where Saul had been during the attack. Well, if there was one inmate whom he knew to be innocent of partaking in the orgy it was Saul. He may have witnessed it, but no way would one so physically feeble and cautious venture within reach of any of those villains.

            Curious as to why the man had wandered up to this level of the prison, Bane remained motionless and continued to listen intently. No more whispers, but Saul was there, close, closer now, right outside his cell. There the old man paused, breathing a bit labored, as if climbing the series of steps had winded him. Bane could feel Saul’s eyes upon them as if searching for something. Instinctively Bane’s hold on Talia gently tightened. Then came a faint sound, difficult to determine at first. A rustling. Fabric perhaps. Something being slipped between the bars, the brush of cloth against metal.

            Then Saul’s whispering mumble, “The baby is cold.”

            The rustling stopped. With sudden urgency Saul scurried away, his bare feet making a vague patter as he slipped back into the shaft.

            Though intensely curious, Bane did not leave the charpoy for fear of waking Talia. But as he lay there, he had a strange feeling, and he sniffed the air again. Still the faint odor of Crazy Saul, but there was something else. Very subtle, so subtle that he figured he must be imagining it; surely his senses were playing a brutal trick on him. Yet the more he considered, the stronger the scent grew in his nose, causing a pain in his heart. No, he berated himself, rubbish. Determined to stave off the pitiless belief, he buried his nose against Talia’s _shemagh_ , breathed deep, filled himself with her scent, closed his eyes, tried to forget.

            Eventually he drifted to sleep, but his slumber was often broken by horrible dreams or by Talia waking from a nightmare. Not until she finally fell asleep again could he reclaim any semblance of peace.

            When morning light first trickled down the shaft and snuck stealthily between the bars of Bane’s cell, he awoke. For a fuzzy moment he questioned his memory of the night, of Crazy Saul’s visit. Melisande’s scent was gone from his nose. Surely it had been nothing more than an insane wish. But then he lifted his head and saw it—Melisande’s blanket, the one she had sent with him when he had been taken from the pit. It lay crumpled just inside his door, still within reach of anyone from the outside.

            With a gasp, Bane threw back his covers, unmindful of anything but rescuing the blanket before some early riser might stumble along the corridor and rob him of the one thing that was left of her. He snatched it up like a parched man might grasp a cup of water, pulled it close, embraced it, smelled it.

            “Bane,” Talia said, half asleep. “What is it?”

            He sank to his knees, closed his eyes in thanksgiving. He could still detect her essence, just faintly, imagined her warmth still upon the rich cloth. His fingers caressed the fabric.

            Behind him, Talia struggled from the blankets and padded over, but he could not look at her. “Is that…Mama’s blanket?” One of her hands rested upon his shoulder, the other took a hold of the blanket. “Bane?” She moved closer, concern in her voice now. “Why are you crying?”

#

            The first symptoms of tetanus began to manifest in Gola within days. His jaw seized up with the typical spasms known as _trismus_ , followed by _risus sardonicus_ which contorted his face into a gruesome grin. No matter how the man had railed against the doctor’s refusal to treat him, Assad still could not be induced, surprising Bane who had never known the physician to deny even the most hardened criminal. And though Assad’s repudiation pleased Bane, it did not in any way earn forgiveness for his lethal neglect of Melisande.

            No other cases of plague had arisen, though the prisoner known as Basayev—whose bloody cough had caused Assad to leave Melisande with fatal speed—died of it the same day she had been killed. The inmates, however, were still on edge, especially considering the doctor’s indifference to Gola’s suffering, for Assad remained the only inmate with access to the prison’s medical supplies. Bane figured some were even regretting their part in the attack on Melisande simply for the sake of their own health should Assad’s grudge prove widespread.

            Assad resumed daily rounds, but Bane did not accompany him, knew he would never accompany him ever again. He could forgive a great many things, but his betrayal of Melisande would never be one of them. Assad seemed to know it as well, for he did not ask Bane to attend him on rounds, nor did he invite him and Talia to his cell.

            As was the custom of the prison, the newly available cell next to Bane’s was auctioned off to the highest bidder, the cost to be retained for their jailers during the next resupply, which was due within a fortnight. The prize went to Yemi, for his fighting prowess had made him the prison’s richest man in both coin and possessions. Bane was relieved that his new neighbor was not someone like Greyson or Aboud. Although he had never cultivated any sort of friendship with the burly Nigerian, Bane respected him and knew that Yemi looked upon him with a certain positive regard, especially since his bout with Omar Alam. Perhaps in time Yemi could become an ally. After all, Bane had not seen Yemi’s distinctive shape among the throng roiling outside Melisande’s cell that fateful day.

            Talia remained subdued, often spending her time lying on their charpoy, staring blankly. Bane did his best to distract her, but the task proved difficult. Even Gola’s moans and grotesque bodily contortions brought about by severe muscle spasms did not seem to impact her. Unable to confine himself to his cell any longer, Bane decided to take drastic measures to shake her free of her melancholy.

            “I’m going into the shaft for a bit,” he said one afternoon when the stepwell would be at its warmest. “Would you like to come with me?”

            Abruptly she sat up, her mother’s blanket wrapped about her. Instead of excitement, as Bane had hoped to see, anxiety filled her expression. Her attention went from the safety of her immediate surroundings to the faint glow of the shaft. She seemed torn by indecision—her years of desire to explore the shaft weighed against the terror of when the world beyond her cell had crashed down upon her with bloody violence.

            “I can carry you, if you’d like,” he said, trying to keep his tone upbeat. He crouched in front of her, forcing a smile, and caressed her cold cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise. And if you get scared, I will bring you right back here.”

            He could see she was already afraid, but her brave nature finally won out, and she stretched her arms toward him. He folded her into his embrace and stood.

            “Can we bring Mama’s blanket?”

            “Of course. We will keep it wrapped around you like this to stay warm. But I think you’ll find the shaft quite warm by this time of day; well, warmer than in here anyway.” At the door, he hesitated before unlocking it. “Are you sure? You can stay here, if you like.”

            She played with the key tied around his neck. “No. Come with you.” She lifted the cord over his head and handed it to him.

            There were more than two dozen men in the stepwell, most everyone still wearing cover over their faces, just as Bane and Talia did. When Bane stepped out of the shadows, the inmates turned toward them, one by one, but none moved from where they sat or reclined on all levels of the _bawdi_. He was relieved to see Hans among them, already attentive to their presence. Conversations continued unabated, but Bane felt the stares still as he made his way downward, trying to hide his own heightened state of alertness from Talia lest she grow frightened. She gripped him tightly but did not hide her face. Instead she took in her immediate surroundings, the prisoners as well as the steps they traversed, as if concerned Bane might trip.

            Down to the pool where half a dozen men were washing themselves or their clothing, two of them completely naked. Bane hoped Talia’s curiosity over anatomical differences did not resurface.

            “Don’t talk to any of them,” he quietly cautioned, and she nodded without hesitation or argument.

            Her attention was upon the pool, which shimmered slightly in the far-reaching sunlight. The wonderment in her wide eyes chased away the sadness. Bane smiled and took her to the edge where he sat.

            “I’m going to take off my shoes and put my feet in the water. Would you like to do that, too?”

            “Why?”

            “To let them soak. It feels good, and it washes them clean.”

            She seemed unconvinced, studying the surface and the ripples caused by the movements of the other men.

            “Here. I’ll show you.” He started to set her on her feet beside him, but she made a small distressed sound and clung to him. “Right, then. Just sit here on my lap.” He struggled out of his worn shoes, rolled up his pant legs, and eased his lower legs over the edge. Then he smiled encouragement to her. “See?”

            He raised his feet until his toes stuck out of the water. When he wiggled them, Talia giggled. She watched the strange distorted images below the surface as he alternated his legs up and down.

            “Your hair,” she pointed at his legs. “It’s floating.” Then she tugged up her pant legs to study her own calves. “I don’t have any hair.”

            “Not yet. It will grow when you are older.”

            Talia’s eyes moved up the shaft, growing rounder with awe. “You climbed all the way up there!”

            “That’s right. A long time ago now.”

            “Will you climb again?”

            “I don’t know if I can because of my back.”

            Since Melisande’s death he had thought of the climb numerous times because he knew her absence now robbed him of that opportunity. He could not chance another fall that might either cripple or kill him, not when Talia was depending on him and him alone now. But he did not want to say that to her. He wanted her to continue believing that they would one day leave the pit, though he had little hope for that, and in truth had started to steel himself to remaining here as long as Talia lived. There was still the chance that Melisande’s mother might find a way to rescue at least her grandchild. He frowned when he thought of Maysam, considered her grief if she ever found out that her daughter had been murdered and in such a brutal way.

            “If you can’t climb,” Talia said, “then I will.”

            Bane chuckled. “You are too small.”

            “I won’t always be small. Someday I’ll be big like you.”

            He kicked his feet harder, churning the water, creating bubbles. Talia laughed at the sight and started to remove her shoes. Bane helped her roll up her pant legs. She scooted herself to sit between his thighs, her knees drawn up. Her toes twitched at the edge of the pool. Gradually she lowered one foot, hesitated with a gasp when her sole touched the surface. She looked up at him, and he grinned back. Slowly she submerged her right foot then her left.

            “It’s cold.”

            “Of course it is. The sun can’t reach this far down.”

            “So it would be warm if it was up there?”

            “I imagine so. When I was up there, the sun was very hot, so it must warm up water just like it warmed me up.”

            “Did you like being warm?”

            He shrugged. “I guess so. But in some ways it was very uncomfortable, probably because I wasn’t used to it.”

            Talia imitated his movements in the water, first wiggling her toes then kicking. When she inadvertently splashed herself, she squealed and laughed. He kept one arm wrapped around her waist to ensure that she did not fall in. He did not need wet, clinging clothes to hint at her true gender.

            Bane realized everyone was watching her now, some—like Hans—with pleasure, others with bemusement; a couple at the pool looked slightly annoyed by her fervor. As Talia played, eventually reaching down with her hands to slap at the water, Bane paid close attention to the movements of all in the shaft, especially those nearest to them.

            Off to Bane’s right, Ali Aboud and another man, Kahlil Hassan—the prison barber—reached the pool, rapidly conversing in their native tongue. Their discussion fell away as they neared the pool only a few feet away from Bane who tossed them a black glare. Both men cupped water into their hands to splash on their faces and exposed arms. With their nearness, Talia stopped playing, glancing furtively at them but not removing her legs from the water. Aboud caught her sidelong look and pulled the _shemagh_ away from his face to flash a reptilian grin.

            “Venturing out of your cage, I see,” Aboud said.

            Talia did not respond.

            “Ah…too good for us, are you? Ignoring us like your mother did.”

            “Maybe,” Bane growled, “Melisande wouldn’t have ignored you if you had been civil to her.”

            Aboud nodded sarcastically, unconvinced. The grin lessened. “You should have let the child die with the mother. Better for him, don’t you think?”

            “No,” Bane replied snidely, “I don’t think.”

            Aboud's grin vanished altogether. “Innocence cannot flower underground. It should be stamped out.”

            Talia withdrew from the water, pressing back against Bane whose left hand had slipped beneath her tunic to the knife.

            “You would kill a child?” Bane said with ice running through his words.

            Aboud shrugged one shoulder, portraying insouciance, not a physical threat. He exchanged a look with Hassan who did not appear particularly comfortable with the subject. “You look at the child and see his mother enduring through him. I look at the child and see unnecessary suffering. You of all people should know, having been born and raised here. What kind of life is this for a child? He will only come to corruption, as you have.”

            “I am not corrupt.”

            “No? What do you call murder, my friend? First the Vulture, then that poor fool Ramzi?”

            “You of all people to judge me,” Bane scoffed. “I hear your daily prayers to Allah, falling on your face as if you are some pious, devout man instead of the hypocrite that you really are. If you truly believed the words you mutter every day on your prayer mat, you would realize that this child could very well be your redemption, to be prized, not reviled.”

            Aboud laughed humorlessly, but Hassan seemed almost moved by Bane’s words, curious perhaps that anyone here could even entertain the thought of salvation.

            Hassan asked, “What are you saying?”

            “He is speaking horseshit,” Aboud said, standing up. “This child is nothing more than a criminal apprentice, being schooled by a murderer.”

            “Am not!” Talia shot, surprising all of them, though she no doubt had little true understanding of the conversation. “I’m good, just like my mama. She told me so.”

            Bane pulled her close but did not shush her. To Hassan, he said, “Every one of you is guilty of Melisande’s murder, whether you were in her cell or not. Maybe some didn’t mean for it to happen that way, but it did. Plato said, ‘He who commits injustice is ever made more wretched than he who suffers it.’ But just maybe, by nurturing her child instead of harming him, you can redeem yourselves in the eyes of your god.”

            Aboud scoffed and waved a dismissive hand before turning to leave. Hassan, however, lingered an instant more, his troubled brown eyes resting upon Talia’s defiant face until at last he, too, turned for the steps, covering his face once more with his _shemagh_.


	64. Chapter 64

            Gola was dead within four days, his throat constricted by spasms that allowed neither food nor water to pass, his body racked by fever and the agony of rigid spasms throughout. Though his slow demise was unpleasant to those living adjacent to him, Bane felt no pity and in fact took pleasure in watching his torture, even allowing himself to bait the man with remarks about the justice of it all. And though the Pakistani’s ghastly physical contortions caused Talia to avoid looking at him, she never showed any signs of sympathy.

            She accompanied Bane whenever he left their cell. He confined his movements to the stepwell or Hans’s cell, for he did not want to subject Talia to any of the disreputable sights of what went on in the various corridors, particularly the sodomy that was practiced by some, both forcibly and consensually. He certainly was not ready to have _that_ discussion with her, especially since he was almost as innocent as she. It was horrible enough to think that one day she would fully grasp the reality of what those men had done to her mother as well as know that she could be likewise defiled.

            They saw little of the doctor except for each morning when he passed by on his rounds. Generally he avoided Bane’s eyes, but now and then he cast a wistful look Talia’s way. Sometimes, when she saw Assad’s glance, she started to say hello, but then her gaze went to Bane’s closed expression, and her greeting would die away. Bane knew that Talia did not fully understand why his relationship with the physician had changed, yet she followed his lead in ostracizing the man. Perhaps, Bane considered, it was unfair to allow the transference of his own ill will to her, to deprive Talia of the man’s friendship. After all, Assad was a valuable asset if not for his comradeship than because of his position as physician and pharmacist. To alienate him from Talia might prove unwise if the doctor became indignant with their behavior. And, of course, there was the uncomfortable fact that Assad was the only prisoner who knew Talia’s secret. Yet surely, Bane told himself, Assad would never betray her, especially because of his guilt over his part in Melisande’s death.

            “If you ask me,” Abrams said gruffly one morning after Assad had passed by their cells, “you’re a fool to hold such a grudge.”

            “I didn’t ask you,” Bane grumbled.

            Abrams arose from his charpoy, scratching himself, scowling at Bane. “I caught him, you know.”

            “Doing what? Leaving someone else’s cell unlocked?”

            “No, damn you; quit being such a prick. I caught him shooting up with morphine last night.”

            “So? No doubt he’s still sore from the beating they gave him.”

            Abrams grunted skeptically. “Maybe. But I think it was more for his mental health than the physical. He’s not the same.”

            “Neither am I; neither is Henri. But you don’t see me asking for something to kill the pain, do you? It’s not my fault he’s weak.”

            Abrams’s scowl deepened, and he turned away, saying, “I can see there’s no use talking to you.”

            As the days passed, Talia still refused to let Bane leave her side, so whenever he went to the stepwell—limiting himself to only the early morning and during the warmest part of the day—he carried her with him. Each day she seemed to relax a bit more, becoming more talkative and wanting to explore the shaft instead of simply visiting the pool or sitting in one spot to soak up what little warmth trickled down from the heavens. Eventually she started to squirm in his arms, no longer insisting that he hold her. Of course, he did not want her to wander—nor did she try—but he was pleased to see that she felt comfortable sitting next to him with his arm around her instead of cowering in his embrace with a death grip on his arm or clothing.

            She continued to have nightmares. Often after consoling her, Bane could not fall back asleep. He missed his nighttime visits to the shaft when all was quiet and dark, missed its strange velvety black comfort, missed looking up at the stars.

            One night, after a particularly traumatic dream woke Talia screaming, Bane’s words could not calm her, drawing the ire of many of the nearest prisoners. He took her in his arms and slowly paced around their cell, softly shushing her. But her sobs continued to irritate the inmates, garnering threats from some. Desperate, Bane carried her out into the shaft, her mother’s blanket wrapped about her. There he sat at the top of the stepwell, gently rocking her. Her grief gradually trailed off as she realized where she was.

            “Look up,” he whispered in her ear. “You can see the stars.”

            Many times Talia had heard the story of Bane and her mother sitting in the shaft together, admiring the stars, and she had often voiced her strong desire to witness the same. So now his words succeeded in distracting her from her sorrow.

            “Can you see them?”

            She pushed her _shemagh_ back and turned her face upward. “The tiny lights?”

            “Yes, that’s right. See how they seem to wink?”

            Talia swallowed the last of her tears and nodded.

            Bane pointed. “My mother used to say that the stars are the souls of the people who have died, that they shine up there to give us hope, that they watch over us. So maybe one of them is your mother, looking down on you, checking to make sure you are not sad or afraid.”

            “Really?” The idea seemed to strengthen her.

            “Yes, and I bet she is the brightest star up there.”

            Talia considered this. “Is your mama up there, too?”

            “I think so.”

            “So our mamas are together?”

            “Well,” he smiled, “that is a happy thought, isn’t it?”

            “Yes.” She hugged him around his neck then squirreled out of his embrace to sit next to him.

            “Tomorrow I’ll show you a book with pictures of the different constellations. I’ll teach them to you, so when you leave here you will know them. Many, many years ago sailors used to use the stars to help them navigate their ships on the oceans. So if you are ever lost at night, the stars can help you find your way.”

            She wiped away the remains of her tears with her _shemagh_ then sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

            The odor struck him just as she asked the question, and he heard movement nearby, barely discernable. “That’s Saul. He’s the man who brought your mother’s blanket back to us.”

            “He took Mama’s blanket?”

            “No. He got it back from someone else who had taken it. Then he returned it to us.”

            “He did?”

            “Yes. So you should thank him.”

            “Where is he?”

            “Just down the steps from us.”

            “I can’t see him.”

            “He’s there. I can hear him breathing.”

            “Why doesn’t he say hello?”

            “He’s very…shy.”

            Talia hesitated as if she was trying to hear Saul breathing, then she gathered her courage and called, “Thank you for returning Mama’s blanket to us, Saul.”

            Saul emitted a small gasp, as if startled that she knew he was there. He mounted another step then stopped. “Saul, Saul, Saul,” he quietly said with wonderment, as if he had nearly forgotten his name until Talia had spoken it.

            “Is he one of those bad men who hurt Mama?” she whispered, her hand upon Bane’s arm.

            “No.”

            “Have I seen him before?”

            “I don’t think so. He only comes out at night, and he keeps to himself.”

            Saul advanced another step closer, muttering, “The baby…the baby said thank you…thank you, Saul. Saul, Saul, Saul.”

            “Why does he smell so bad?”

            “He doesn’t wash himself; well, at least not as much as we do.”

            “Why not?”

            “Saul, Saul, Saul,” the words grew slightly louder, an almost sing-song cadence. “Talia said thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

            Bane froze in cold terror. “What…what did you say?”

            The demanding strength of Bane’s voice drove Saul back a cautious step. The muttering stopped, his breathing increased, open-mouthed; rancid breath. Bane sensed fresh fear.

            “What did you say?” Bane tried to remain calm, but panic swelled in him. Surely his hearing had played him false. “What did you call him?”

            Saul retreated another step. Bane knew that in a couple of seconds more the man would vanish altogether…and he could not let that happen.

            With an impetuous lunge Bane ripped himself free of Talia’s grip and toward Saul. But Crazy Saul had already been in motion, spinning away, so Bane caught only the ragged hem of his shirt. The threadbare fabric ripped away as Saul fled downward. Off balance, Bane tumbled down the steps, cursing as pain flashed through his back and neck.

            “Bane!” Talia shrilled.

            He got to his feet, furious with himself, started after Saul.

            “Bane!”

            The terror in Talia’s voice yanked him to a halt. The whole prison would hear her; some would come out of their cells to investigate. He could not leave her, even for five minutes. Terrified and torn, he listened to Saul escape the stepwell. Behind him, Talia’s calls collapsed into tears of fright and abandonment. He hurried back up the steps to where she sat, paralyzed beneath her mother’s blanket.

            Bane pulled her into his arms, shushing her and pressing her face against him to muffle her sobs. “I’m here…I’m here. It’s all right.” Urgently he rocked her. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry.”

            “I couldn’t see you. It’s so dark. Where did you go?”

            “Nowhere. I was just down the steps. I wanted to ask Saul something, but he ran away.”

            “Why?”

            “He’s afraid.”

            “Of you?”

            “Of everyone.”

            “Why? Did the bad men hurt him, too?”

            “Yes, many times.”

            “Will they hurt us? Let’s go back.”

            “We can’t go back until you stop crying because you’ll keep Abrams and the others awake; they’ll be angry.”

            “I’ll stop. Please can we go back now?”

            “Let’s wait just a minute more, then we’ll go.”

            As Talia quickly sniffed back the rest of her tears and collected herself, Bane stared down the shaft, into the deeper blackness that had swallowed Crazy Saul. How could the man possibly know Talia’s name? Neither he nor Melisande had told anyone, not even the doctor. Frantically his thoughts traveled backward, trying to remember when they had ever spoken the name between them. The first occasion had been when Melisande had revealed the name to him. Had there been a second time? He pressed his eyes shut, fought to slow his memories down, sifting through five years of conversations.

            Then he remembered…

            The night during one of the monsoons when he had awoke to find Melisande crying, and she had spoken of her concerns about concealing Talia’s gender, denying the girl her true identity. Bane remembered Melisande’s frightened reaction when he had allowed himself to speak Talia’s name aloud that night. But who could have heard? Gola and Abrams had both been snoring away on their charpoys; Bane remembered listening to their stertorous breathing before he had been so reckless with his words. Even if they had, for some odd reason, been deceiving in their slumber, he had been speaking so softly no one at that distance could have understood any of the conversation. Yet…perhaps someone else had been there that night, closer than Abrams or Gola, out in the corridor… No, he shook his head, if another prisoner had heard him use Talia’s true name, the secret would have immediately flashed throughout the prison and Talia would have died with her mother.

            Talia, quiet in his arms, asked, “Can we go back now?”

            “Yes.” Awkwardly he climbed to his feet.

            “I don’t smell Saul anymore.”

            “No, he’s gone.”

            “Why doesn’t he wash if he smells so bad all the time?”

            “He does wash…sometimes…when it rains. That’s when he takes his clothes off and stands in the shaft. But he only does it at night because he feels safer that way. You can’t smell him afterwards, at least for a while.”

            Bane’s explanation trailed off into icy dread as the realization struck him. That night long ago…talking to Melisande…it had been raining for days…it had been raining that very night when he had spoken Talia’s name… He knew then—Saul must have been outside his cell that night, listening to their conversation. And, washed clean by the monsoon, his presence had been undetectable.


	65. Chapter 65

            Bane knew what he had to do. Yet the stark reality, the absolute necessity of it did nothing to ease his conscience. He thought of the nefarious things he had done over the years to survive here, none of which he regretted or now lost any sleep over. But when he and Talia returned to his cell from the shaft, he lay wide awake for the rest of the night, trying to convince himself that they had nothing to fear from Saul. After all, the man had obviously carried the secret of Talia’s identity all this time, perhaps never letting it slip between his lips until now. And if he had previously uttered her name, obviously no one had thought twice about the incoherent ramblings of a lunatic, nor would they in the future.

            But could he take that chance?

            No. He could not risk what happened to Melisande happening to her daughter. And if it did, he could never live with himself if he had done nothing to prevent it.

            Throughout the next day, he continued to struggle with indecision. His distraction irritated Talia who insisted that he pay more attention to her Latin lessons and to the book he had shown her about astrology. When she wondered why they were not going to Hans’s cell for his usual workouts, he made half-hearted excuses. The truth of the matter was he did not want to be around Hans while mulling over this problem Saul had presented. Hans would sense his conflict and inquire. And, of course, Bane could never tell him the truth of what had occurred last night in the shaft. Nor could he allow anyone, not even Hans, to know what he planned to do, for to incriminate himself and suffer possible punishment could very well lead to a return to the solitary hole. And that would mean leaving Talia alone.

            Late in the afternoon, while Talia napped, Bane gathered his nerve to visit Doctor Assad. Yet, no matter how stealth his effort, he could not slip beyond his cell without Talia waking up. She gasped at the sight of him opening the door and leapt after him, clutching his leg. So, reluctantly, he carried her with him.

            Surprisingly for this time of day, he found Assad asleep on his bed. Bane had to raise his voice in order to rouse him. The doctor slowly lifted his head from the pillow, his bleary eyes taking some time to focus on those at his door. The man’s appearance startled Bane. His eyes and cheeks were hollow, his mouth appeared incapable of changing from its natural downward bend to the once-familiar smile. But some life returned to his eyes when they touched upon Talia’s concerned face, and he made an effort to add haste to his departure from a bed obviously well-slept in. When Assad unlocked the door, Bane recognized the fog of morphine in his diverted gaze.

            “What…what brings you here? Is the child sick?”

            “No.” Bane forced himself to look at Assad without wavering, without emotion. “But he’s been having trouble sleeping.”

            “That is understandable. In time this will pass.”

            Bane wondered if Assad’s morphine use would pass as well or if he had already started down the slippery slope of addiction. Remembering his own use of the drug after his fall in the shaft, Bane allowed himself a brief touch of envy for the doctor’s ability to dull his grief and guilt.

            “I’d like to give Henri something,” Bane said, “just for a night or two to help him rest.”

            If Assad was suspicious of his motives, he did not show it, his attention on Talia. She glanced shyly at him, as if sheepish about her treatment of him since her mother’s death. The doctor smiled pensively at her, touched her shoulder, obviously missing her. A nudge of sympathy poked at Bane, but he mentally swatted it away.

            “Do you have something for him?” Bane pressed to break the doctor’s concentration upon Talia.

            Assad cleared his throat, his hand dropping away from her. “Yes…yes, I believe so.” He went to the rear of his cell where his medical bag sat upon a small table. Digging through it, he located a pill bottle, nearly empty. It rattled as he pulled it out and shook two tablets into his hand. He instructed, “Break these in two. That will give you four doses.” He lifted one eyebrow in question. “Would you like some for yourself?”

            “No,” Bane replied brusquely.

            “There is no shame in it.”

            Bane closed his hand around the pills, scowled at him. “We’ll be on our way now. Wouldn’t want to disturb your sleep any more than we have.”

            When Bane turned for the door, Assad said, “Wait,” and hurried to his pantry. Impatiently Bane stood in the doorway. The doctor returned with two limes, a fruit used to help fight off the appearance of scurvy in the prison. “For the child,” he said, giving them to Talia, adding, “I have extra,” before Bane might protest.

            “Thank you,” Talia said.

            Assad smiled and touched her cheek. “You are very welcome, little one.” Then, hoarsely quiet: “I am so sorry about your mother.”

            Talia frowned, studied the limes, nodded.

            Bane’s glare went unseen, for Assad’s moist eyes remained on Talia. Abruptly Bane turned her away from him and stalked from the cell.

#

            That evening, an hour before the pit’s usual sudden plunge into darkness, Bane gave Talia a warm drink made with chamomile and lemon to wash down the sedative.

            “It’s too early to go to bed,” she protested.

            “You need some extra rest. You haven’t slept through the night once since…” He frowned and tucked her beneath their blankets. “I’ll light the brazier, so it’ll be nice and warm before dark.”

            “Aren’t you coming to bed, too?”

            “No, not yet. But I’ll read to you until you fall asleep.” When she opened her mouth to complain, he tweaked her lips as if with a key, and conjured a convincing grin. “Not a word or I won’t read.”

            He succeeded in pulling a smile from her, and she tugged her mother’s blanket up to her chin. “I love you, Ba-ba.”

            The nickname warmed him, and he bent to kiss her. “I love you, too. Now…what shall I read?” Once again he mourned the loss of her storybooks and hoped to one day replace them.

            “Shakespeare!” she chirped.

            He chuckled. Of course, she understood little of what he read of the Bard’s works, but she enjoyed the way he altered his voice for the different characters and made them comical, no matter how tragic the plot.

            In the next cell, Yemi spoke up in his rumbling, low voice, “How about _Romeo and Juliet_?”

            A man of few words, his suggestion jerked Talia’s attention to him in surprise, but then she looked away, as she always did with other prisoners since her mother’s death. Whenever Bane read to her, he had often wondered if Yemi paid any attention, suspecting that he did because occasionally he had caught the man secretly smiling over one passage or another. Now his suspicions were confirmed, and it made him smile.

            “No, Christ, no; not again,” Abrams groaned. “Not fucking _Romeo and Juliet_.”

            Ignoring the objection, Bane retrieved the volume from his crude bookshelf. Much to Abrams’s relief, Bane did not get far into _Romeo and Juliet_ before the sedative captured Talia and softly drew her away. Looking at her peaceful expression, he envied her and wished of all things that he could stay here with her. But as soon as the deeper darkness of night arrived, he silently slipped from his cell—having earlier unlocked the door and oiled the hinges for the very purpose of being undetected. He hoped that Abrams did not hear his shoeless feet carry him into the shaft.

            Down, down the steps he tread, barely breathing, pausing at each level to listen like a bat for any hint of another prisoner in the stepwell. He hoped he was not too late.

            Reaching the lowest level, he halted to listen again, not only for other prisoners but for Talia. Hopefully the sedative and the chamomile would work at least long enough for him to finish this business and return to their cell. If she awoke and called out for him, he would have to abort his mission, something he feared doing because once Talia knew he had snuck out on her, she would be wary of him doing so again tomorrow and would no doubt fight against taking another sleeping pill. He could not afford that happening.

            Silence. Just the trickle of water that fed the pool, somehow enormously loud to him tonight. And his breathing. He held his breath as he slipped around the pool to the mouth of one of the corridors. There he flattened himself against the wall to the left of the opening. For a moment he closed his eyes, regulated his respiration and heartbeat, his mouth cottony dry. Then he sank to his haunches, attuned his ears down the corridor…and waited.

            As minutes slipped by, and then an hour, stretching into a second hour, he wondered if he had arrived too late. No, Saul would never have ventured out before total night had consumed the shaft, and if he had, by now Bane would have detected him in the stepwell. Perhaps he would not come at all tonight. Bane had no idea if the man wandered the prison every night or if he only ventured out of his cell once a week. No, it had to be more frequently. Before Melisande’s death, Bane visited the shaft at night multiple times every week, and nearly every time he had sensed Crazy Saul’s presence either by sound or smell, indicators that other prisoners no doubt would never pick up, but Bane had schooled himself well on every nuance of the pit, day or night.

            Now and then he changed his position from crouching to standing to ease the ache in his back. At least tonight his chronic pain served him well, for it kept him awake and aware.

            He tried not to let his thoughts wander, focusing on the task and not the whisper of his conscience…or rather his mother’s conscience. If she were here, would he be doing this? Would he have done any of the evil deeds he had perpetrated? It was difficult, however, to imagine his mother now, as she would be; instead he only thought of how she had been. Now that he was an adult, he was glad, for her sake, that she had died; he would not have wanted her to endure all these years, still stuck down here, and he unable to free her. And yet, if she were here, she could have cared for Talia with the same maternal affection as Melisande. Bane had no doubt that his mother would have taken the child in and raised her as her own. He frowned at the fact that his mother had never had the joy of a daughter…or at least what he figured would be a joy to any mother. Yes, she would have loved Talia.

            More time slipped by. A particularly ebony night, for when he looked up the shaft he saw no stars. He smiled to himself, glad that Talia had seen them, hopeful that his words about her mother watching over her would give her strength now and in the days to come. His fingers twitched. Perhaps he should abandon this plan for tonight and return to her. Yet…could he take that chance?

            A quiet cough from the corridor jerked his head up, his entire being instantly alert. Adrenaline shot through him, and he sank back to a crouch, careful that his clothing did not rub against the stone behind him and create a minute alarm. The familiar, unwashed odor met his nostrils. The pit was home to many men who found hygiene to be a casual, haphazard affair, so perhaps the inmate who approached now was not Saul. If it were someone larger and stronger than he, this could prove disastrous, if not fatal. Then what would become of Talia?

            But he shoved away this distraction, held his breath, waited…

            The man drifted closer, the smell stronger now. Muttered words babbled incoherently, confirming the inmate’s identity. Bane momentarily closed his eyes, a sharp memory striking him, the memory of Crazy Saul telling him about the antibiotics that had saved Talia’s life.

            Just before the mouth of the corridor, Saul stopped, said nothing. Panic edged into Bane, but he urged himself to wait. He did not want Saul to be spooked and flee, forcing him to give chase and draw the attention of those who could incriminate him afterward.

            Then the mumbling resumed: “Thank you, Saul. Thank you.” The words’ meaning clawed at Bane’s nerves, his will. Saul shuffled forward. “Go and see her now. Yes. Thank you, Saul. Saul, Saul…”

            The odor choking now, the man right next to him.

            In one smooth move, Bane stretched up to his full height, making not a sound as his right hand covered Saul’s mouth and his left arm snaked around his head. Before Saul could flinch or try to cry out, Bane’s muscular left arm twisted. Saul’s neck snapped, a sharp sound that, to Bane, seemed to echo throughout the shaft. The old man went limp. Bane, however, did not let him drop. Instead, with his hand still over Saul’s mouth and his other around the bony shoulders, he gently lowered the man to the stone pavement, laid him there just out from the wall, as if Saul had taken a bad step from above and fallen to his death.

            Then, as silently as when he had arrived near the pool, Bane hurried back to his cell, trying to forget the grisly sound of Saul’s demise.


	66. Chapter 66

            The pit’s population accepted Crazy Saul’s death as either suicide or accidental. After all, who would want or have any need to murder one so helpless and innocuous? And certainly no one mourned his malodorous absence. Yet, for several days afterward, the evil that Bane had perpetrated troubled him, for he had always hated prisoners who preyed upon only those who were weaker than they. Yet whenever the memory agitated him and caused his fingers to twitch, he looked to Talia, and his shame melted away.

            As the weeks and months slipped by in one monotonous blur, Talia’s grief for her mother blurred as well, aided by the resilience of youth. The nightmares ceased, and her appetite returned. Her insatiable curiosity of all things was renewed, and she devoured any book that she could read or that Bane read to her. She dogged him relentlessly about exploring the various corridors in the prison, but Bane would not allow it. So instead she enjoyed her time in the stepwell—playing in the water, squealing with delight as Bane chased her up and down the steps, or riding piggyback as Bane galloped about, playing the part of her faithful steed. Sometimes as he sat near the pool with Talia perched upon his shoulders, she would cross her arms upon his head and use him as a pillow, falling asleep there. She still accompanied him to Hans’s cell for his daily workouts, but once in a while—if she was engrossed in a book or playing with her toys—she allowed him to leave their cell without her. Such confidence on her part pleased him. Yet sometimes it saddened him as well because he hated the thought of her growing up and becoming more and more independent, as he had with his mother. Independence could lead to her ruin, he feared. For her safety, he needed her to be afraid of everything beyond their cell.

            She seemed to grow right before Bane’s watchful eyes. Every few weeks she begged him to mark her growth with a piece of chalk upon the rear wall of their cell, then she would gaze proudly upon the visual proof of her progress to adulthood. Diligently he kept her hair closely cropped, and he argued privately with her to always wear her _shemagh_ , especially when they were outside their cell. He told her that it was to safeguard her health, to keep away drafts, but she cared not for any sort of logic when the mood struck her to toss back her head cover.

            Her personality developed with the same rapid rate as her body, showing stubborn willfulness—though never meanness or spite—whenever she disagreed with his parenting. Her temper, too, showed a change, especially after her mother’s death—she was quicker with outbursts or arguments. Of course, she never stayed angry with him for long, not only because she loved him but because he—as keeper of their key—had the ability to punish her by not allowing her to leave their cell with him. Such a denial of privilege was worse to her than any harsh words he might entertain using against her petulance. With Bane being as volatile as she when challenged, their squabbles often drove Yemi, Abrams, and Greyson—who now occupied Gola’s old space—from their cells with loud, profane complaints.

            One of those fights had occurred near the pool when she—seven years old by then—had pulled off her shirt and demanded that he teach her how to swim.

            “I don’t know how to swim,” he cajoled, reaching for her discarded garment. “So how could I teach you or anyone else how to swim? Now put your shirt back on. It’s cold.”

            “No.”

            She struggled to untie the hemp belt at her waist. Trying to contain his alarm at her intent, Bane grabbed for her, but she sidestepped out of reach, and he was forced to get to his feet. At that, she abandoned her struggle with the belt and leapt into the pool. Instantly Bane jumped in after her, their commotion drawing the ire of those inmates closest to them whom they splashed.

            “Go ahead and drown the little rat,” Greyson called from the far side of the pool. “Less noise around here then.”

            Talia’s leap had completely submerged her, and she came up coughing and floundering, but the pool was shallow enough for her to stand and keep her head above the surface. She had time only to swipe the water from her eyes before Bane snatched her up and dragged her, kicking and screaming, to the nearest side.

            “Let me go! I want to swim.”

            He tossed her over his shoulder. “The pool isn’t for swimming,” he scolded, absorbing her childish blows against his back. “How many times must I tell you that? Now you’ve gotten us both wet.”

            “Put me down!”

            He maintained his vice-like hold upon her as he retrieved her shirt and started back to their cell.

            “I don’t want to go back. Let me stay. Please. I’ll be good.”

            “Where have I heard that before?”

            Several prisoners taunted him and his predicament as nursemaid to an unmanageable ward as he climbed out of the stepwell. But he ignored the familiar derision and harsh laughter, hiding the fear that had set his heart hammering ever since Talia had flung off her shirt. Her punishing blows had ceased the minute he started upward, and her conversion to contrition continued with implorations to return to the pool and promises that she would behave.

            “Don’t even start,” he warned when she began to conjure up the tears that had worked so often in the past.

            “Please, Ba-ba.”

            “That’s not going to work either,” he scolded her nickname tactic. “You’re going to dry off in our cell, and I’m not going to hear any more talk of swimming ever again. Understand?”

            She sniffed, all fight drained from her now as she rested her head on his shoulder.

            Once in the privacy of their cell—all of their neighbors were gone—Bane used one of their blankets to towel off her upper body before putting her shirt back on. It was over-sized and long enough to reach nearly to her knees. He removed her soaking pants and shoes, then wrapped her in Melisande’s blanket and sat her on their charpoy. Wringing the water from the articles as best he could, he then hung them upon the bars of their cell. He did the same with his own pants then replaced them with his dry sarong.

            “We’re running low on charcoal,” he said with his same displeased tone. “And now we must waste some of it to get you warm here in the middle of the day.”

            “I’m not cold,” she said, though her chattering teeth betrayed her lie.

            He raised a disappointed eyebrow at her, and she shrank with shame.

            “I’m sorry, Bane,” she murmured, staring at the floor.

            When he was finished at the brazier, he came to sit next to her. Her head was still down, and a couple of genuine tears dripped from her chin to the blanket. With a frown, he put an arm around her, never able to stay angry at her for more than a few minutes, understanding all too well the boredom and frustration of being a child in the pit.

            “Don’t cry, little mouse. It’s all right.” He retrieved her _shemagh_ from where it lay on the charpoy and draped it around her neck, tucking it close to her chilled skin. “Do you know why I don’t want you to play in the pool?”

            “Because it’s cold.”

            “Yes, well, there is that.” He lowered his voice and spoke close, his eyes always checking the corridor. “But don’t you remember what your mother and I told you about taking off your clothes in front of others?”

            “But I didn’t take my clothes off; just my shirt.”

            He sighed in exasperation. “We can’t let the others know you are physically different from them, remember? Getting your pants wet…well, it makes your clothes cling to you, doesn’t it?”

            “Yes.”

            “And because of that some might be able to tell that you’re different…down there, I mean. Do you see what I mean?”

            Talia frowned. “I guess so.”

            “We can’t let them know. They would try to hurt you like they did your mother.”

            “Why?”

            “I’ve told you why; they are bad men.”

            “Hans isn’t a bad man.”

            “I’m not talking about Hans. Now don’t argue with me on this. Just promise me you won’t jump in the pool again.”

            Her lips twisted. “I promise.”

            Bane kissed her head. “Thank you.” He stood. “Now, I’m going to Hans’s cell to work out.” When she started to get up, he said, “No, not you. You must stay here.”

            “But why?”

            He gave her a stern look. “Whose teeth are chattering from disobeying me?”

            She hung her head.

            “I want you to sit on the mat in front of the brazier and dry off. Put that charcoal to good use. And keep that blanket tight around you. I’ll be back shortly.”

#

            When Bane returned to his cell, he found Talia still in front of the glowing brazier, a large book open in her lap. Stepping inside, he recognized the volume by its size: his anatomy book. Having it in her possession surprised him, for he kept it on the top of their bookshelf, out of Talia’s reach. But then he noticed that she had dragged their stool to the shelf; she must have climbed the rest of the way.

            She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled, pointing at the pages. “Look, Bane! I found a picture of someone like me.”

            Puzzled, he crouched next to her, and when he saw the illustrations of female genitalia, a small gasp escaped him, and he quickly swiped the book from her.

            “Bane! Give it back.”

            He returned the textbook to the shelf and pulled the stool away.

            “Did you see the picture? It was like me—”

            Harshly shushing her, Bane rushed back to her and clamped a hand over her mouth.

            “What?” she protested against his palm while his gaze darted around them.

            He put a finger to his lips before releasing her.

            Talia whispered, “What’s wrong?”

            “You must not speak of those pictures.”

            “Why not? They looked like me. I mean—”

            Bane’s hand covered her mouth again. “I know what you mean.”

            She struggled to dislodge him.

            “Whisper,” he said.

            When she nodded, he freed her and sat next to her on the bamboo mat.

            Talia’s forehead furrowed. “Those pictures,” she said thoughtfully. “It said they’re of a woman.” Her long lashes lifted like tiny dark veils as she raised her confused gaze to him. “She was like me…down there. But…I’m a boy.”

            Bane put his arm around her to draw her close, his attention hard upon the coals in the brazier, as if he could find the answer to his predicament there among the sizzling embers.

            “If I’m a boy, why don’t I look like the other picture, the one of a man? Will I change when I get older? Is that what happens?”

            “No, sweetheart,” he said, desperately struggling for a way to deny what was already apparent to her. He could not hide the books nor the truth forever, yet he had hoped for more time. When he remembered Melisande despairing over their deception, he told himself that she would understand if he now explained the truth of the matter to her daughter. But could a child keep such a secret?

            With her mother’s blanket still wrapped about her, Talia crawled into Bane’s lap, cleverly knowing that such a gesture of trust and love would crumble his defenses. A small hand escaped the blanket’s folds and gently touched his lips, as if such a caress could impel an explanation from him.

            “Tell me what happens, Bane.”

            “You _will_ change,” he said at last. “But not the way you think.” Again he glanced along the corridor to ensure their solitude. “You won’t change into a man, though; you will change into a woman…from a _girl_ to a woman.”

            “A girl? What do you mean?”

            “I mean you have a secret, a secret that only I and the doctor knows about, as did your mother.”

            “What secret?”

            He bent even closer to her ear. “Do you know why the other prisoners attacked your mother?”

            “Because they’re bad men.”

            “Yes, but…they attacked her specifically because she was a woman.”

            “Because she was different?”

            “Yes, different than them…in all things, but mainly because she was a woman, just like you will be one day. And that’s why we’ve kept this secret from you, from everyone—to protect you, to keep you safe, to fool the bad men so they wouldn’t hurt you, too.” He watched the parade of confusion march across her large eyes. “You are a girl, not a boy.” When she gasped, he quickly put a finger to her lips. “It has been a secret all these years, and that’s how it must be always, for as long as you are here in this prison. Do you understand?”

            She continued to stare up at him, and he was relieved to see that she was not angry with him for misleading her. “I’m a girl?” she whispered.

            “Yes. A beautiful girl, just like your mother.”

            Another gasp escaped her. “Just like Mama…” He could tell by her frown that she was thinking back, no doubt remembering the times she had seen her mother’s body, times when she had been too young to make the correlation between her parent’s sex and her own. “But why did the bad men hurt Mama just because she was a woman? Why don’t they like women? You’re a man, and you never hurt Mama…or me.”

            Well, Bane considered, best to tell her all, to get it over with altogether at once. She very well might not understand everything, but at least she would know that he no longer kept anything from her.

            “Let me get the book again,” he said, encouraging her to return to the mat. Once he retrieved the anatomy book, he sat beside her and opened the pages to illustrate his explanation. Uncomfortable, he cleared his throat, unwittingly remembering his long-standing desire for her mother. Sometimes—considering the way she had died—memories of those urges made him feel ashamed.

            “Before your mother came here, she married your father, Henri Ducard, because they loved each other very much.”

            “I know,” she said with a hint of impatience. “Mama told me all about him. She named me after Papa.”

            “Well, when two people love each other as much as your parents did, they…they…well, they…they have intercourse and that’s what makes babies like you.” Talia’s frown deepened, so he hurried onward, pointing to the illustration of a man’s anatomy. “This is like…your father.”

            “Like you,” she said with a smile that turned his face and even his ears crimson. He was unsure which made him squirm more—the fact that she was familiar with his genitals or that she seemed more interested in him than her father.

            “And this…is like your mother.”

            Some of the confusion lifted as she in turn pointed at the pictures, “This is like you…a man, and this is like me…a woman.”

            To consider Talia as a sexually mature woman gave Bane pause, unexpectedly flustered him. He gently reminded her to whisper, using the moment to recover. “Yes…well, as I was saying, a man and a woman have intercourse, which—”

            “What’s intercourse? Is there a picture?” She flipped back a few pages.

            “Not in here, no.” He inwardly cursed. Why did he have to be the one to explain all this? After all, he certainly was no expert, a twenty-two-year-old virgin—a fact often used by other prisoners to mock him, men like Greyson who said he would die here that way. Yet another reminder of all the things he had not experienced in life, as others his age had beyond this pit.

            Using the book’s illustrations, he did his best—in the briefest possible way—to explain the sex act to Talia.

            “That’s how your mother had you…because your father made love to her; that’s what some people call having sex. But, to some men, having sex doesn’t have anything to do with love. It’s about satisfying their base needs; it’s about power and hate; it’s about hurting someone.”

            Talia had remained quiet throughout his elucidation, her expression thoughtful as she struggled to understand. When he said these last words, fear stole some of the color from her cheeks. “That’s what the bad men did to Mama?” she asked in a small voice.

            He closed the book, feeling suddenly very cold despite the brazier. “Yes.”

            Setting the textbook aside, he drew her back into his lap and wrapped his arms around her. She, too, felt chilled. He kissed the top of her head then the edge of Melisande’s blanket before he wrapped it tighter around her.

            “Is that what they will do to me?” she anxiously asked.

            “Not if we keep your secret. The others must always think you are a boy; you must remain Henri for as long as you’re here.”

            She hesitated a moment before looking up with sudden realization. “Henri is a boy’s name, Papa’s name.”

            “Yes; that’s the name your mother chose to help keep you safe.”

            “But if I’m really a girl, what’s my girl name? Did Mama give me a girl name, too? A secret name?”

            His lips pressed together as he frowned and looked into Yemi’s cell…Melisande’s cell, remembered that day long ago when Melisande had revealed Talia’s name. How he missed their private talks together…

            “Bane?”

            “Yes…she told me your real name. I’m the only one who knows it; not even Doctor Assad knows. We never told him, to be safe.”

            Talia tugged at his shirt to draw his attention back to her. Eagerly she asked, “What is it?”

            He considered her bright eyes, the intrigue there, the wonder and curiosity about her true identity. His inherent cautiousness warned him against revealing the name. What would Melisande do if she were here in his place with her child staring up at her, waiting with bated breath?

            “Tell me, Bane,” Talia whispered. “Please.”

            He thought of his own birth name, nearly lost from memory now. If he ever left this place, would he reclaim it? If he did, if he relegated Bane to this pit, would that also bring back his innocence and erase all that he had done here? If he was ever to meet his father, which name would he choose to introduce himself?

            “Bane, tell me my name.”

            Talia’s words drew him back from his brief reverie.

            “Perhaps it would be better if I waited until we’re free of this place. It’s safer if you only know Henri.”

            “No,” she wheedled. “Tell me. I promise I won’t ever say it. Please.” She tugged again at his shirt. “Tell me.”

            Bane frowned again, struggled. He had come this far; to go no further would be cruel and only lead to badgering on her part, and that alone could prove ruinous if heard by other ears.

            Talia had gotten to her feet and now stood between his legs, close. She took his face in her hands, their noses touching. “Please, Ba-ba.”

            His defenses crumbled, and he momentarily closed his eyes in defeat. When he opened them, he pulled her back into his embrace, his lips close to her ear. “Talia,” he murmured. “Your mother named you Talia.”


	67. Chapter 67

            “ _Deshi_ , _deshi_! _Basara_ , _basara_!” Talia shouted from near the pool, her voice nearly lost amidst the deep-throated chanting of the men. She turned from watching the prisoner making the climb up the shaft, her expression scolding. “You must chant with us, Bane.”

            “I will wait until he is higher,” Bane said with something close to disinterest, though he realized, for Talia’s sake, he should portray enthusiasm for the escape attempt. But he knew this climber to be weak, too weak to make it very far in his quest. All too well Bane remembered the strength required for such a feat.

            Not hiding her disappointment in him, Talia turned her face upward again and resumed the chant, occasionally raising her arms as if to push the climber onward. Bane sat with his back against one of the staircases, the cool stone soothing and supporting his aching spine. From there he studied Talia’s soft profile. Her _shemagh_ had fallen to her shoulders, draped around a neck that he knew would one day be as elegant as her mother’s. Ten years old. Still young enough that concealing her gender provided little challenge but old enough to offer challenges in other ways, such as her growing confidence around the other prisoners. When she had first learned the truth of her gender, she had gone through a fearful phase where she had kept mostly to their cell, as if others had learned her secret at the same time as she. But eventually that trepidation evolved into almost haughtiness, her secret empowering her, knowing that she was fooling dozens of adults, those same men whom she despised still for what they had done to her mother five years ago.

            Movement to Bane’s right shifted his attention. Doctor Assad entered the shaft two staircases over. For an instant, the man’s drug-fogged gaze touched upon Bane and Talia, but when Bane scowled at him, Assad’s attention lifted to the climber. His expression showed no more hope than Bane’s. No, the doctor was not here to encourage the climber with chants or other exhortations; he was here simply to pick up the pieces after the inevitable fall. That is, if he was not so impaired that he could discharge his duties. At least he was vertical today, Bane scoffed to himself. Sometimes when a prisoner scaled the shaft, Assad could not be roused from his bed to attend to any injuries. The physician’s addiction over the years had only added to Bane’s disdain for him. Although Talia seemed to pity him, she always followed her guardian’s lead and avoided the doctor as much as she could.

            Bane turned his attention from Assad to another prisoner, who stood a few paces to his left. A newcomer to the pit, arrived just yesterday, and unique in his nationality: Mongolian. A short, stout, unsmiling man with close-cropped black hair and narrow, dark eyes, perhaps in his thirties. Temujin was the only name Bane had thus far heard to identify him. Unlike most prisoners upon their arrival in the pit, Temujin displayed no fear of his strange new surroundings or the men who populated it. Instead his sharp gaze had taken everything in with one encompassing sweep, a survivor, not a victim. The couple of prisoners who had tried to rob him shortly after his feet had first touched down in the stepwell found themselves quickly on their backs, staring up at the sky with no idea how they had gotten there.

            “Some form of martial arts I’ve never seen before,” Hans had said to Bane when they discussed Temujin’s noteworthy display. “Faster than a snake,” he nodded in admiration then grinned. “Maybe, with those ninja skills of his, _he_ can make the damn climb.”

            Though Bane had snorted at the idea that Temujin was a ninja, the powerful little man’s abilities nevertheless intrigued him. Perhaps the Mongol would be willing to teach him such an art.

            Now Temujin watched the climber with taciturn regard. He paid no attention to the chant or to any of the other prisoners. His entire focus was upward, but Bane realized he was not looking strictly at the climber; instead the Mongol’s gaze swirled against the shaft walls, as if noting every nook and cranny, mapping it. Perhaps, Bane considered, Hans was right about Temujin having the skills to scale the shaft. He certainly seemed to be studying it with a will.

            The climber made it only halfway to the top before his strength failed him and he plunged downward to the end of the safety rope. Icy water seemed to pour down Bane’s spine at the memory of that rope giving way during his own fall, and he looked away from the swaying, defeated man. The spectators shouted curses and catcalls, berating the defeated climber. The usual wagers were paid out, and the prisoners went their separate ways as Hans lowered the sagging man. The doctor circled around the shaft to perform his exam, but the climber—having fallen a relatively short ways—appeared to have suffered little more than the jarring burn of the safety rope.

            “See!” Talia wheeled upon Bane with a pout. “You should have chanted. Maybe he would have made it.”

            Bane chuckled. “All the chanting in the world couldn’t have gotten that one to the top, little mouse.”

            For the first time Talia noticed Temujin, who had not moved from his spot on the adjacent set of steps. Still the Mongol studied the shaft. Before Bane could stop her, Talia started up the steps toward Temujin, whom she had been curious about since his arrival, especially because she, too, had witnessed his adroit dispatch of the two would-be robbers and had listened intently to Hans and Bane’s discussion of the Mongol.

            “Hello,” she called out to him. “Do you speak English?”

            Instantly Bane was behind her, his hands upon her shoulders to stop her. Surprisingly she obeyed, halting a few steps below Temujin whose slitted gaze slid down to Bane before touching upon Talia. A flicker of surprise brought a hint of life to his countenance.

            “So it is true,” the Mongol said in accented English.

            “What?” Talia said with a smile of pleasure over his knowledge of a language she understood.

            “There is a child here.”

            “I’m ten,” she said as if insulted by being referred to as a child.

            Bane moved beside her on the step, his arm around her shoulders, ready to push her behind him if the Mongol entertained any thought of harming her. He did not, however, sense hostility in the man. Instead Temujin emitted the same purposeful calm that Bane had witnessed yesterday. If anything, he appeared almost amused by Talia.

            “And what is a ten-year-old doing in a prison such as this?” the Mongol asked. “What crime did you commit, little one?”

            Indignation erased Talia’s smile. “I haven’t committed any crime. What crime did _you_ commit?”

            Temujin’s chuckle took Bane by surprise, the curve of his narrow mustache straightening above blunt, spaced teeth, slightly dulled. “ _Touché_ , as our French comrades might say.” He faced them now, arms crossed loosely against his chest. “And what is your name, my bold little friend?”

            “Henri,” she said, stretching upward with pride. “Henri Ducard.”

            Sudden interest wiped the lightheartedness away from the Mongol. “Henri Ducard?”

            “Yes. I’m named after my father.”

            Temujin’s gaze flicked to Bane. “And is this your father?”

            Talia giggled. “No, this is Bane. Papa is up there.” She pointed.

            “And if he is up there, why are you down here?”

            “I was born here.”

            The Mongol’s eyebrows shot upward, and he looked to Bane. “There is a woman here?”

            “No,” Bane said coldly. “She died five years ago.”

            “Well, then,” Temujin’s attention returned to Talia, “I am sorry for you, Henri Ducard.”

            Talia frowned, some of her joy momentarily tarnished.

            “You might find it interesting to learn that I once knew a Henri Ducard.”

            “You did?” Talia gasped. “You knew my papa?”

            “Well, I don’t know if he was your papa; he never spoke of a son.”

            Bane’s eyes narrowed at the man’s insane claim. “Don’t make game of this child, Mongol.”

            Temujin’s expression closed. “Do not presume that I am, my muscle-bound young friend. No doubt you are unfamiliar with honorable men, but I assure you that I am one of them.”

            “If you’re so honorable,” Bane challenged, “then why are you here?”

            Temujin shrugged one shoulder, some of his menace sliding away as easily as it had come. “I was tasked with killing a very powerful man in Dubai. I succeeded, but unfortunately I was taken up shortly after.”

            Talia rushed on as if she had noticed none of their exchange, “Papa doesn’t know about me. That’s why he couldn’t tell you about me. That’s why I’m going to climb out of here. I’m going to find him.”

            “This Henri Ducard you knew,” Bane said, “did he ever mention his wife?”

            Temujin rubbed the stubble on his chin. “It has been two years since I spoke with Ducard.” He glanced up the shaft. “But now that you mention it, I do recall him speaking of a woman…once. It caused him great pain to speak of her, so it was only the one time.”

            Talia gasped again and took a step closer, but Bane’s hold on her allowed nothing more. “What did he say?”

            Temujin frowned as he tried to recall. “He said they had been married in secret. Something about her father’s displeasure that she had chosen an infidel against his wishes.”

            Shock replaced Bane’s doubts. “Did he tell you her name?”

            “I believe he did…but I cannot recall. Perhaps it will come to me in time.”

            “Melisande,” Talia chirped. “Is that it?”

            Surprise broke across Temujin’s dark countenance. “Why, yes…yes, I believe that was it.”

            Talia jumped up and down. “That’s Papa!” She tugged at Bane’s arm. “He knows Papa!”

            Caution returning, Bane asked, “How do you know him?”

            “We trained together. As I said, it has been two years—”

            “Trained as what?”

            Now Temujin’s expression closed. “As warriors, one might say.”

            “That’s where you learned to fight—the way you did yesterday—what you did to those two men?”

            The Mongol gave a brief, almost reluctant nod.

            “Do you know where Ducard is now?”

            “No. As I said—”

            “Yes,” Bane cut him off impatiently, fingers twitching, “two years. But where was he then, when you were training together?”

            A muscle along Temujin’s jaw tightened, and he turned slightly away. “What does it matter? You cannot get word to him even if I knew—they tell me that no communication is allowed with the outside world here.”

            “Not while we’re here,” Bane conceded, “but if we were to escape…”

            Temujin barked a laugh. “You will make the climb? You with your heavy muscles to weigh you down? One must be a fly to crawl out of here.”

            Talia came to Bane’s defense before he could retaliate, “He’s climbed before—twice.”

            Temujin spread his hands wide. “And yet he is still here.”

            “He made it all the way to the top,” Talia cried. “But it was raining that day, and he slipped. I bet you couldn’t make it that far.”

            Temujin chuckled darkly. “We shall see.”

            “I can make it,” she insisted before Bane’s hand squeezed her shoulder to signal an end to her tirade.

            “If you don’t think we can escape,” Bane said evenly, cautioning himself against alienating this man, “then what harm is there in telling us where Ducard was the last time you saw him? Perhaps he is even long gone, so again—what harm?”

            Temujin considered. “Perhaps Ducard would not want his child, or anyone, to find him.”

            “You said it caused him great pain to speak of his wife; surely a man who loved his wife so strongly would want to learn of his offspring as well as know what happened to the woman he loved.”

            “Knowing she is dead is little different than knowing he cannot be with her if she were alive.”

            “But he didn’t know she was sent here…sent here in his place.”

            Temujin scowled. “What do you mean?”

            “Her father had condemned Ducard to this pit.”

            “Yes, he told me. But she negotiated with her father to exile him instead.”

            “And so she did, but Ducard didn’t know the true price of his freedom, a price that Melisande paid.”

            “What are you saying?”

            “She took his place here. She didn’t know that she was pregnant with his child at the time. That’s why Henri was born here, and that’s why Ducard doesn’t know about him.”

            With a quick glance around at the cold stone that surrounded them, Temujin nodded as if to himself, thoughtful. “Truly she loved her husband to have committed herself to this.”

            “Please,” Talia said. “Please tell me where Papa is.”

            He studied her, his eyes now troubled. Bane wondered what made the Mongol hesitate. Of what was he afraid? Was it Ducard? But if so, why? He must have been close to the man if Ducard told him about Melisande. Yet perhaps they had had a falling out…

            “You haven’t told me your name,” Talia said, surprising Bane by what was obviously a tactic to gain the man’s friendship.

            The Mongol gave a slight bow. “Temujin.” A tiny smile twitched his mouth, as if he was uncomfortable now with the whole situation and was trying to placate her. “But you, little one, may call me Jin.”

            Talia bit her bottom lip. “Please, Jin, won’t you tell me where my father is? I know he would want to see me.”

            Temujin produced a small grunt. “I am sure he would, but…”

            “But what?”

            The Mongol straightened and reclaimed his stoic persona. “The place where I knew him…we were sworn to secrecy as to its location.”

            “We won’t tell anyone,” Talia insisted. “We promise, don’t we, Bane?”

            Bane could see that Temujin had thrown up a wall, one that petitions alone could not penetrate. Perhaps he was indeed an honorable man after all. “We shouldn’t ask a man to break his word, Henri,” he said, his tone purposefully heavy with disappointment for her.

            She was obviously dismayed that he was giving up so easily. “But…Papa…”

            Bane picked her up. “We will find him one day. Don’t worry.” He stared at Temujin, hoping to make the Mongol feel a prickle of conscience.

            “Please tell me where Papa is, Jin,” she tried one last time. “I’m good at keeping secrets, aren’t I, Bane?”

            Bane said nothing, only stared at Temujin. For a brief moment the Mongol seemed to wither under his scrutiny, but then the weakness vanished, and Temujin left them, chased from the stepwell by Talia’s pitiable calls.


	68. Chapter 68

            Temujin had little rest from Talia’s constant appeals for information regarding her father. Whenever she saw him enter the shaft, she begged Bane to let her out of their cell, and he usually obliged, accompanying her as always. There he would sit and wait as Talia harangued the Mongol, eventually driving the man out of the stepwell. She would try to follow him, but this Bane would not allow, though she always put up a spirited struggle, both verbally and physically, to defy him.

            “If you anger him too much,” Bane cautioned one day, “he might never tell you about your father. You have made your case abundantly and passionately clear. Give him some time and space, and perhaps he will come around.”

            She crossed her arms and sulked with impatience. Her gaze rose up the shaft. “Jin said only a fly can climb the shaft. I’m small, like a fly. I can do it.”

            “You’re not even big enough to make it over the first ledge.”

            “You could lift me up.”

            With a chuckle, he smiled at her determination. “You have waited ten years, little mouse. You can wait a bit longer.”

            “I don’t want to. I want to find Papa.”

            “I know you do.” He reached out for her hand and drew her close to try to dispel her disappointment. “One day you will be up there. I feel it in my bones.” He winked and got to his feet, grunting with the effort. “My very sore bones, I might add. Now why don’t we go back to our cell for some supper, so I don’t have to sit on these stones any longer?”

            The next time Temujin entered the shaft while they were there, Talia was playing with one of her toys near the pool while Bane washed his clothing. He always did his laundry during the warmest time of day when being stripped of everything but sarong or pants was not as unpleasant as cooler hours. When Talia saw Temujin, she started for him, but Bane called to her and shook his head. She sighed and frowned, sitting back down to half-heartedly resume playing with the wooden horse.

            Temujin’s surprised glance touched upon the child before bouncing to Bane. The Mongol offered a single, appreciative nod before he crouched to wash his face and arms.

            Finished scrubbing his _shemagh_ against his crude washboard, Bane settled back to rest his aching back. He closed his eyes and rubbed the burning sensation from them. When he opened them, he noticed the two prisoners whom Temujin had thrashed upon his arrival in the prison; they were descending the stepwell—one to the right of the Mongol, the other behind him. They did so with an air of false indifference, now and then glancing at one another as if to make sure they arrived at the pool at the same time. Bane also noticed two other inmates drifting downward at the same time, at the same pace, one to the left of Temujin and the other across from the Mongol. They, too, glanced furtively at the others nearing the pool.

            “Henri,” Bane said, low but strong enough to garner Talia’s attention.

            “I’m not gonna talk to him,” she grumbled.

            “Henri…” When she begrudgingly looked at him, he crooked a finger, his gaze strong and meaningful. Quickly understanding, she hurried over to him. Speaking as calmly as possible so she would not be frightened, he said, “I need you to run back to our cell.” He palmed her their key.

            “Why?”

            “Don’t argue,” he said softly through bared teeth. “Just do it.” His fingers twitched as he watched the closing foursome.

            She followed his gaze and understood in an instant. “Do you want the knife?”

            “No.” He pressed her hand that held their key against her chest. “You keep it. I’ll be all right. Now go.”

            That shadow of terror left by her mother’s murder darkened her eyes and made her hesitate.

            “Go,” he said. “Lock the door behind you. Stay there until I come for you.” He touched her elbow, gave her an encouraging nod, then pushed her away. “Go.”

            With one last worried flash of her eyes, Talia hugged her toy tightly and hurried toward the closest steps. She was nearly to the top by the time the four prisoners reached the pool. Bane kept his attention upon her, not turning away until she disappeared behind the pillars after one last look his way.

            Bane casually turned back to his washboard, picking up his shirt to scrub next. He shot a sidelong glance at Temujin who was drying his face with his _shemagh_. Though the Mongol did not look up to see the approaching men, Bane had an innate feeling that Temujin was aware of the impending danger. No doubt he was waiting for them to get close, unsuspecting of what was about to befall them. But four men…twice the potency of the original assault.

            The four closed upon Temujin, two to the rear, one on each flank. The closest had to pass Bane, moving between him and the Mongol, his back now to Bane. With a nod from one of them, the four charged Temujin.

            The Mongul exploded upward from his crouch, arms and legs moving in different directions at once, a blinding blur that knocked one man into the water and sent two others sprawling. The fourth man, however, had managed to duck beneath the blows and came upward into Temujin’s chest. The two fell into the pool, water thrown high, sending the handful of spectators scrambling back.

            The attacker already in the pool had gained his feet and rejoined the assault, pouncing upon Temujin, followed by the other two, though slower and dazed. With their ranks closed once again, the foursome pushed Temujin back below the surface.

            Bane sprang into action, leaping through the air and landing on one of the unsuspecting men. His weight drove them both to the bottom of the pool. With Talia always in mind, he curbed his impulse to snap the inmate’s neck. Instead he pinned him down just long enough to force the man to panic and choke, then he freed him, knowing this one would be powerless to do little more than resurface and gasp and cough to clear his lungs.

            Coming up, Bane wheeled upon the other attackers who still held Temujin beneath the roiling surface. He latched onto the closest man who was bent in a vulnerable position in order to restrain the thrashing Mongol. Clutching him by the back of his collar and the waistband of his pants, Bane flung him against the edge of the pool. The bite of the stone into the inmate’s back forced an outcry and slowed his defense as Bane battered his chest and face. Before his victim could recover his balance and wits, a thundering right from Bane knocked him senseless and he slipped beneath the water.

            With only two left to contain Temujin, the Mongol had managed to get his head above water. A hand spidered across his face, trying to force him down again. Bane stepped behind the nearest prisoner and sledged a two-handed blow against the back of his neck. At the same time he snaked his right leg between the assailant’s legs and dislodged him. The prisoner lost his hold on Temujin, sank to his knees. Bane shoved him underwater as Temujin broke the fourth man’s grip. The shallow water could not curb the speed of the Mongol’s feet and hands—a kick to the crotch doubled the inmate; a right-handed chop to the windpipe rendered him powerless. The assailant staggered backward, clutching at his neck as he struggled to breathe, eyes bulging.

            The first man Bane had attacked wanted nothing more to do with them and scrambled for the far side of the pool where he pulled himself to safety, still gagging and coughing up water. Bane allowed the third back to the surface, a hand gripping the man’s neck, ready to shove him under again if he continued the fight. But once the inmate saw what Temujin had done to his companion, his only concern was to get out of reach. With a growl to encourage him on his way, Bane freed him. The man scrambled out of the pool, sputtering and heading for the closest way out of the stepwell.

            Temujin stood his ground, now as unmovable as if he stood on dry land, his hands held before him, not as fists but as lethal chopping tools. The last man he had fought retreated to a nearby set of steps and hastily climbed from the pool, glancing furtively back, trying to curse them but unable to rasp out a single syllable. His black gaze flashed once at Bane, then he too stumbled away. Around the pool, the spectators who had provided noisy encouragement to the brawl now looked on in relative silence, only a couple of them murmuring reactions to each other, the rest simply staring with grudging respect at Bane and Temujin.

            Bane breathed a relaxing exhale before he turned to fish the unconscious prisoner from the pool and flopped him like a herring upon the edge. Then he and Temujin climbed out of the water.

            The Mongol shook his head like a dog, water flying, before he squared his shoulders and sighed as if nothing had happened. He regarded Bane with veiled surprise and cautious gratitude, his attention glancing off Bane’s glistening, naked torso.

            Bane grinned crookedly and held his arms out to either side. With a pointed glance at his soaked pants, he shrugged. “I had planned on washing these anyway.”

            A twitch of humor quirked one end of Temujin’s pencil-thin mustache. Dryly he retorted, “I could have taken all four of them, you know.”

            “Yes, I could see you were doing a bang-up job of that.”

            “The water gave them the advantage, like a fifth man. Sometimes even I cannot dispatch five.”

            “So you had an off day.” Bane shrugged again. “Good thing I was here for that.”

            “Indeed.” Temujin brought his hands together in front of his chest and bowed slightly. “I am in your debt.”

            “Bane!” Talia’s shout filled the shaft.

            He looked up in surprise to see her rushing down the stairs, slipping past other prisoners like a feather caught in the shaft’s downdraft. Indignation at her refusal to heed his instructions suffused his face with hot color.

            When Talia reached him, she threw her arms around his waist and embraced him tightly, unmindful of his drenched appearance. Her fearful trembling tempered some of Bane’s anger, yet he knew he could not allow her disobedience to pass without rebuke.

            “I told you to stay in our cell.”

            “But I heard the fight.”

            “The fight is exactly why you were to stay in our cell.”

            “But there were four of them. I was coming to help you.”

            Bane started to splutter further in his rebuff, but Temujin began laughing, the sound catching Bane off guard and stifling his words. Talia loosened her hold upon him as she stared in surprise at the Mongol. Her fear quickly changed to indignation, her hands balling into fists.

            “What’s so funny?”

            “You,” Temujin replied. He collected himself. “If I doubted your claim of parentage, I see now that any such doubts were unfounded.”

            Confused, Talia glanced up at Bane.

            Smiling, Temujin crouched in front of her, water pooling around his sodden shoes. “You were going to take on four men, were you?”

            She scowled at him. “I have a knife.”

            “So I’ve heard. But four men…” He tsked playfully and shook his head. “Such bravery in one so small. It was very discerning of your mother to name you after your father. He is one of the bravest men I know.”

            Talia’s crossness vanished like a cloud lifting from the sun, and pride and excitement radiated from her, nearly lifting her onto her toes. “He is?”

            “Yes.” Temujin’s attention returned briefly to Bane. “And I believe he would approve of your bold young friend as well.”

            Talia started to ask something more, but she caught herself and flicked chastised eyes toward Bane, biting her lip to curb her words.

            “Well,” Temujin said, “I must dry these lovely rags our turnkeys so graciously bestowed upon me when I arrived.” Again he pressed his hands together near his chest and bowed his appreciation once more to Bane before leaving them.

            Talia’s expression collapsed in renewed disappointment as she watched him go.

            “It serves you right,” Bane took up his mantle of authority, hiding his true feelings. “You broke one of our cardinal rules by coming down here, didn’t you?”

            “Yes.” She hung her head in an effort to appear repentant, but Bane was not buying what she was selling.

            “How many times have I told you? What I tell you to do is not negotiable. This isn’t a game. If you had come down here any earlier, you could have endangered not only yourself but me and Jin as well.”

            “But I have our—”

            “Knife or no knife, you are no match for a man, and especially multiple men. If that knife makes you feel invincible then perhaps it’s time I took it away from you.”

            She gasped, her hand slipping beneath her shirt to the blade at her waist. “No…” She took a step back.

            “Well?”

            Now true contrition bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Bane.”

            “And?”

            “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

            He grunted skeptically, hiding a small smile at her determination to keep her weapon. “Well, all right then. I might as well scrub these pants of mine, seeing as how they’re already soaked. Then we’ll go back to our cell so I can dry off.”

            Talia’s despondent gaze trailed up the shaft in search of Temujin.

            “No long face now,” he chided. “I know you were just trying to help me and Jin. It would be a shame for us to lose him before he can tell you how to find your father. But,” his finger tipped her chin up, “maybe after today, he will not be so tight-lipped.” A grin slipped through his veneer, and Talia immediately brightened with realization, flashing her mother’s smile.


	69. Chapter 69

            Temujin’s revelation about Henri Ducard’s reputation for bravery buoyed Talia for days. What pleased her the most was the fact that the Mongol had so closely linked them through that particular quality. She had always admired Bane’s courage but had never considered herself to mirror such a characteristic…until Temujin’s compliment. Whenever she verbally relived the moment, her chest swelled with pride and her eyes sparked with sapphire brilliance. Though such displays often brought a smile to Bane’s face, her bolstered self-confidence troubled him as well, for he feared that she could easily court danger with emboldened, poorly placed remarks or actions around the other prisoners.

            Following the fight at the pool, Talia had even more difficulty curbing her curiosity about what Temujin knew of her father. But Bane remained adamant in his demand that she not pester the Mongol with further questions.

            “My mother used to say: You can catch more flies with honey.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “It means using agreeable tactics will get you farther in your quest than if you use irritating tactics, like hounding Jin about your father.”

            “But you said that helping him fight those bad men would make him tell us about Papa.”

            “There is no _making_ Jin do anything. He has to want to do it. And just because he hasn’t, doesn’t mean he won’t.”

            Talia managed to continue to obey Bane’s order to not harass Temujin. But that did not stop her from trying to ingratiate herself with the man. When she saw him in the stepwell, she usually found some excuse to approach him, whether it was to offer to mend a tear in his shirt or to give him a bite of her mango or to ask him if he wanted to play checkers. The Mongol tolerated her and even seemed to be growing fond of her.

            One evening, Bane and Talia sat on the bamboo mat in front of their brazier—alight with charcoal from their dwindling supply—and Bane told her stories about her mother and of things that Melisande had told him from Talia’s early years and before her birth. Of course, Talia had heard most of these anecdotes many times before, but she never tired of revisiting them as she rested in Bane’s arms, wrapped in their blankets. She especially wanted to again hear everything that Melisande had said about her father.

            Toward the end of his stories, she asked, “Do you think Papa ever tried to write to Mama? Do you think he knows that she was sent away?”

            “Hard to say. But even if he had written to her, no doubt your grandfather would have kept the letters from her.”

            “But why? I don’t understand why Grandfather was so mean to Mama. I mean, he was her father. My father would never send me to prison.”

            Bane kissed the top of her head through her _shemagh_. “Of course he wouldn’t.” He sighed. “When it comes to your grandfather, obviously he’s a cruel man to do what he did. He is a strict Muslim, and he could not countenance his only daughter marrying outside of their faith as well as to a foreigner.”

            “But why didn’t Grandfather let her find someone else? Why send her here?”

            Bane gave her a gentle squeeze. “He knew how much your parents loved one another. She wanted only your father. She wouldn’t have settled for anyone else. Your grandfather knew how strong-willed your mother was…like her daughter.”

            “Uh-uh,” Talia protested, looking up at him, her smooth cheeks ashine with firelight.

            Bane grinned at her. “Uh-huh.” He squeezed her again until she squirmed in protest. “If your mother hadn’t been sent here, she would have run away and found your father.”

            “I wish she had.” Talia hesitated then quickly turned to him. “But if she hadn’t been sent here, I never would have met you.”

            He smiled. “That’s true. So, see—good things can come from bad.”

            “You won’t ever leave me, will you, Bane, even if we escape?”

            “Of course not. But if we escape, I want to find my father as well.”

            “I know Papa will help you find him.”

            “And I want to find the man responsible for sending my mother here.”

            “What will you do when you find him?”

            Bane’s stare hardened upon the brazier. “I will make him pay for what he did.”

            “But if he hadn’t sent your mother here, I wouldn’t have met you either.”

            Her words softened him. “That’s very true. And what would I do without you?”

            She giggled. “You would be bored.”

            “Would I?”

            “Of course. You wouldn’t have anyone to yell at.”

            “I don’t yell.”

            “Yes, you do…kind of.” She giggled again, wriggling when he tickled her belly. Then she sobered. “If you find your father, will you still stay with me and Papa? Or will you go to live with him?”

            “That all depends on my father and yours. Maybe neither will want me.”

            “Yes, they will.”

            “And besides, I’m a grown man. Regardless of our fathers, I will need to make my own way in the world.”

            “How?”

            He frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll become a soldier. Or maybe I can work as an interpreter since I know several languages. Or maybe, with my medical knowledge, I can find work at a hospital or something.”

            “Or perhaps,” someone spoke from beyond their cell, “Henri Ducard will have work for you.”

            Talia, instantly recognizing Temujin’s voice, gasped and struggled to her feet, her mother’s blanket still around her. “Jin!” She rushed to the front bars where the Mongol stood, his pale grin and a faint reflection of the fire in his eyes being the only things to reveal his physical presence. Bane wondered how long the man had been standing there. Slowly—always slowly when away from the eyes of most others—Bane climbed to his feet.

            “See my blanket?” Talia asked their visitor. “Papa gave this to Mama before she came here.”

            Temujin nodded, obviously not as interested in the blanket as with something else on his mind. Bane drifted up behind Talia and put a hand on her shoulder.

            “I thought,” the Mongol said with a glance at Abrams’s and Yemi’s cells—the latter was empty, Yemi off gambling somewhere, “that perhaps the little one might like to hear some new bedtime stories tonight…stories about her father.”

            Again Talia gasped, stepping forward to grab the bars with tight anticipation. “Oh, yes! Please, Jin.” Quickly she looked back to Bane. “Can he come in? Please.”

            “Perhaps it would be best if we went out to him.”

            “But it’s cold. Aren’t you cold, Jin? We have a fire burning. We shouldn’t waste it.”

            Temujin waited, unblinking eyes patient and almost challenging, as if slightly insulted by Bane’s distrust.

            “Can he come in, Bane? Please. We can all sit by the fire.” She took Bane’s hand, her face turned up to him, those large, beautiful eyes revealing her struggle to maintain persistence without badgering, like her mother when Melisande had wanted to go into the stepwell to see the stars.

            Temujin’s smile was almost derogatory as he held his hands out to either side. “You know I have no weapon.”

            Bane laughed dryly and allowed a small grin. “You have _four_ weapons, Mongol—two hands and two feet.”

            “True enough. But I come in peace…for the child’s sake.”

            Bane grunted. His caution was born more out of habit than true concern that Temujin might have any real designs to steal anything from their cell or to harm them once inside. And considering their allied fight two weeks ago, he figured he was indeed being a bit foolish. After all, the Mongol’s original words about being an honorable man had thus far proven true in everything Bane and others like Hans had witnessed.

            “Please, Bane,” Talia said, almost near a whisper, as if to prove her subservience.

            Bane cocked an eyebrow at her, and she grinned, knowing she had won. Reaching for the key around his neck, he muttered, “Very well.”

            Talia briefly thanked and hugged him, then waited eagerly with hands fidgeting together for her guardian to allow Temujin inside, the only other prisoner besides the doctor, Hans, and Abrams to be admitted. Bane gestured to the mat in front of the brazier, and with a slight bow Temujin accepted the invitation. When Talia went to sit next to the Mongol, Bane discreetly drew her back to him. He pulled their charpoy closer to the brazier then sat upon it to keep himself in a superior position over their guest, lest the man try anything dangerous. As always at night, their knife lay hidden beneath their pillow, now within arm’s reach. He lifted Talia onto his lap and wrapped his arms protectively around her.

            Temujin’s thin mustache twitched with an amused smile. “Soon the child will be too large for both of you to fit on that charpoy. Perhaps then you should take mine.”

            Bane eyed him. “And why would you give up your charpoy…to virtual strangers?”

            The smile faded away, and a distant thoughtfulness invaded Temujin’s expression as he stared into the fire. “You could call it payment for an old debt of mine, a debt I owe to the child’s father.”

            Talia asked, “What do you mean?”

            Temujin drew his legs toward his chest and rested his forearms across his knees, still staring into the brazier. “During a mountain climb in the Himalayas, I fell into a crevice. The others in our party would have left me—they felt the rescue attempt too dangerous and time was of the essence. But Ducard climbed down. He is a large man—tall and broad of shoulder; he could have become wedged himself, but he came down anyway and pulled me out. I had broken my leg. There was no time to turn back; we had a mission to fulfill. So Ducard carried me.”

            Talia stared in wonder and stirred in Bane’s arms as if to go to Temujin, but Bane held fast. “Papa saved you?”

            “Yes.”

            “What sort of ‘mission’ were you on?” Bane asked.

            “There are some things I will not tell you, my young friend, and that is one of them. I shouldn’t be here at all, talking to you, but…” He shrugged one shoulder in a gesture of futile surrender. “The child deserves to know about…his father.”

            Temujin’s hesitation upon the pronoun and the way his gaze slid from the brazier to Talia with keen interest caused Bane to slightly stiffen with concern that the Mongol saw through Talia’s disguise.

            “Tell me, Jin,” Talia prompted. “Tell me everything about Papa.”

            The Mongol smiled. “I am afraid I do not know _everything_ , but I will tell you what I can.”

            Talia tilted her head back to look up at Bane with pure, triumphant pleasure.

            “When I was just a boy,” Temujin began, “my parents immigrated to Bangladesh to work. I spent my youth in the rice fields. Of course, I hated it. I had always dreamed of going to the mountains. They had always fascinated me. So once I was older, I left my family and went to Bhutan.”

            “Where’s Bhutan?” Talia interrupted. “Is it far from here?”

            “Well, since I am not exactly sure where ‘here’ is, I will guess that Bhutan is well over a thousand kilometers from us, to the east. It is just north of Bangladesh.”

            “What’s it like?”

            “It is a very small country, very mountainous—the Himalayas—but warm in the south where I spent many years working wherever I could, usually for local farmers or herders, until one day,” here a private smile crept over him, “I fell in love with the daughter of a man I worked for. We married, and when her father passed away, he left the farm to us. It was just the two of us and her mother, who was quite frail. I looked after them, and I hoped to one day have a family.” Now the smile faded as did his words, his gaze growing distant.

            “But what about Papa? Did you meet him then?”

            Talia’s questions drew Temujin back to the moment, and he continued, “Not until later. Not until after.”

            “After what?”

            Temujin frowned. “One night some men came to our farm. They were bandits come down from the mountains. I told them to take what they wanted and leave us in peace.” He shook his head. “But what they took from me…I have never had peace since.”

            “What did they take?”

            Temujin did not reply right away, and Bane knew then why Temujin had never told them this story before—the pain and loss were there in his narrow eyes. When Talia started to grow impatient, Bane drew her attention to him and put a finger to his lips. Reluctantly she waited.

            “They took her,” Temujin said at last. “They killed her mother then took my wife back into the mountains with them.”

            Talia settled tighter against Bane, drawing her blanket close, and he knew she was thinking of her mother.

            “What did you do?” Bane asked.

            “I went after them, of course.” He faltered. “But what could I do? I was only one man. They were four.”

            “But you fought four men here,” Talia said quietly.

            “I did not have the skills then that I have now.”

            “Did you find her?” Bane questioned, already guessing the answer.

            “I found her body.”

            Talia looked up at Bane, seeking permission, and at last he allowed her to slip from his arms. She padded over to the mat where Temujin sat. For a moment Bane thought she might embrace the Mongol, but instead she simply sat near him and took his hand.

            “They were bad men,” she murmured. “Like the ones who hurt Mama.”

            “Yes,” Temujin said near a whisper. Then he thanked her with a brief smile and pushed the emotions back somewhere deep inside himself before continuing. “A short while after I had given up hope of finding her murderers, I received news of one of them. He was leaving the country, returning to China. So eventually I tracked him down. I confronted him in a remote village in the north of Bhutan. I killed him, but not before he wounded me, a bad wound, and the village had no doctor and no way to get me to one, if anyone had cared to. But there was a monastery not far, and the villagers carried me there.”

            “A monastery?” Talia puzzled over the word.

            “Yes, that’s what the villagers told me it was—a place for Buddhist monks—and no doubt that is what they believed; it was safer that way. I was treated there, and when I awoke days later, there was a man sitting beside my bed, reading.” He smiled at Talia. “It was your father.”

            She gasped. “What does he look like?”

            “As I told you, he is tall and broad-shouldered. Light brown hair, blue-gray eyes. A raw-boned face with a prominent nose. A very formidable looking man. One who can look right through you to your very soul.”

            “Mama said he is handsome.”

            Temujin grinned. “Well, no doubt women would think that of him.”

            “So Papa was a monk?”

            Temujin laughed softly. “Far from it. As I said, the villagers believed that place to be a monastery, but I quickly learned that it was not.”

            “Then what was it?” Bane asked.

            “A training facility. That would be a more apt term for it.”

            “That’s where you learned to fight?” Talia asked.

            “Yes. I was there several years. That’s how I came to know your father.”

            Considering Temujin’s story about his wife, Bane understood why Ducard had been able to tell him about losing Melisande; no doubt the two men had bonded over their shared losses.

            “What was this training for?” Bane prompted.

            Temujin’s attention drifted from Talia to the brazier. “To fight injustice.”

            “What kind of injustice?” Bane pressed.

            “That is all I will say. As I told you, there are things I cannot reveal to you. It is a tight brotherhood. Though I am no longer a part of that organization, I am still loyal, especially because they saved my life…twice.”

            “You said you haven’t seen Ducard in two years.”

            “I left them then. I had received information about two of the men involved in my wife’s murder. Ducard and the others wanted me to stay with them. They said their work was more important than seeking revenge for one death. But, of course, I disagreed.”

            “Did you find the bad men?”

            “Yes, little one, I did. Those two are dead now. That left only the fourth man, but his trail had remained cold, so I found work in the Middle East, using the skills I had learned in Bhutan. That is how I ended up here after I was caught following my last assignment.”

            Bane got up to add fuel to the brazier. Afterward he carried Talia back to the charpoy where he sat again, holding her close in an almost jealous grip, already berating himself for letting her have physical contact with the Mongol.

            “Tell me more, Jin,” she pleaded. “What was my father like?”

            “He is a man of purpose. Extremely intelligent and driven to succeed. I believe one of the things that motivated him the most was his loss, his grief for your mother. It is a powerful force, I can tell you in all truth.”

            “Did he ever try to come back to her?”

            “I don’t know. As I said, he spoke of her only once. He said she was taken from him, but he did not elaborate upon what that meant, and I could see to press him for more would cause him too much pain. After all, I understood his grief all too well because of my own wife. I think that is why he wouldn’t let me die in that crevice; I was the only man who truly understood what was at his core. It was that which made us brothers.” He hesitated. “That is why I have waited to tell you all this. I fear it is a betrayal in some ways, yet an obligation in other ways. I figured, after your protector came to my aid a couple of weeks ago, I should at least leave you with information on how to find your father in case I were to die and you should ever escape. And I do believe Henri Ducard would want to know about you. Perhaps this will repay my debt to him.”

            Temujin remained some time longer, telling Talia all he could remember about her father but always avoiding answering any questions about the methods or purpose of those who trained at that faraway mountain retreat. By the time Temujin left their cell, it was late, and Talia was nearly asleep in Bane’s lap, his own body stiff from remaining immobile for so long. But she became alert enough to thank the Mongol for all that he had told them and begged him to try to remember anything else about her father.

            Bane locked the door behind Temujin then came to stoke what was left of their fire before returning to the charpoy. He crawled under their blankets, always lying on the far side so Talia was closest to the brazier, but—as Temujin had pointed out—the charpoy was becoming woefully inadequate. Long ago he had outgrown it, his feet hanging over the end. To combat this lack of length, he had shoved a stool there for when he wanted to stretch out. But more often he lay curled around Talia to keep her warm. True, having two charpoys would give them both more room, but it would also deprive them of shared body heat.

            Talia lay facing him, her head pillowed upon his arm. Though obviously tired, excitement still laced through her voice, “I can’t wait to see Papa.”

            “I know.” He tucked her mother’s blanket tightly around her.

            “Can I see Mama’s letter?”

            “It’s late.”

            “Please,” she drew out the word. “Before I go to sleep. Just for a minute.”

            He groaned. “I was just getting warm again.”

            Talia frowned, staring at his chest, her fingers absently playing with his _shemagh_ , which was wrapped tightly around him to keep the chill from his ears. “You don’t have to get up. I know where it is. I can get it.”

            “What if we wait until morning?”

            Her frown deepened into sadness, and though he knew her well enough to know such an expression was no doubt merely a ploy, he could not bear to think that the emotion might be genuine.

            “Oh, all right then,” he sighed. “But be quiet so you don’t wake Abrams.”

            After a quick kiss to his cheek, she grinned and extricated herself from their cocoon. She hurried over to their bookshelf and found _Romeo and Juliet_ then returned with it. She plopped the volume on the charpoy between them then burrowed back beneath the blankets. Propped on one elbow, Bane opened the book to find the letter tucked inside, somewhat protected from the prison’s dampness, patiently waiting there for the day when Talia might escape. Talia set the book on the floor then took the piece of paper from Bane and held it up to catch the dying light. In truth, she did not require light to read the content of her mother’s letter to Maysam, for she had it memorized, every single word of it, having read it endless times since it was written during the last year of Melisande’s life.

            Dearest Mother:

If you are reading this letter, it means I am no more. And because of this, I must entrust to you that which is dearest to me, that which is my very life even after death: your grandchild. I do this with a certain amount of fear, of course, because of Father. He is the reason why neither I nor Bane told you about my child. I do not expect you to take the child into your household, but I pray that you will safeguard your grandchild in any way possible. I pray that Bane will be the bearer of this letter because he will care for the child with whatever resources you can provide; I have no doubt of that and neither should you. We never would have survived all that we have in prison without him. Please do whatever he asks of you, including locating Henri. I know Henri would want to know about his child, and I’m confident with all my heart that he will embrace a father’s duty.

 

            With all my deepest love,

            Melisande

 

            Hearing Talia read the letter always moved Bane deeply—indeed, it was one of the reasons why he never encouraged her to do so—and tonight was no different. He could not speak right away, and instead gently took the letter and folded it with care. He was always struck by Melisande’s unending caution in protecting Talia’s gender, even in this private letter. Though it was locked in his cell, she had avoided using Talia’s name or sex in the missive as a wise precaution in case their cell was ever breached and the letter discovered.

            As was their custom, first Talia then Bane kissed the letter, then he tucked it beneath their pillow for the night. Satisfied, Talia snuggled close to him, and he wrapped his arms around her, hiding his renewed grief from her.

            Sleepily, Talia murmured, “Do you think Grandmother will help us?”

            “Yes.”

            “But what if Grandfather finds out?”

            “She won’t let him. And even if he eventually did, by then you will be with your father. And he won’t let any harm come to you.”

            She made a happy sound and buried her face against him. “I can’t wait to meet Papa and tell him all about Mama.”

            Bane kissed her and rested his cheek against her _shemagh_. But he remained awake long after Talia had drifted off, his thoughts traveling back to days spent with Melisande.


	70. Chapter 70

            Bane rested his chin in his hand as he waited for Talia to make her next move in their game of checkers. She studied the board as if her life depended upon it, her eyes unblinking, her brow wrinkled. She did not sit on her bench like he did. Instead she knelt upon it and hovered over the table, as though this loftier position would give her some advantage over him or perhaps allow her to see something in the game—in her own strategy or his—that she could not detect if she were merely seated. Privately Bane grinned at her determination. Checkers left few challenges for her now. He had been considering making a chess set for them, but their supplies and goods to trade were too few to procure all that such a set would require for its genesis.

            As he waited, his gaze traveled around the shaft, looking upward from near the pool where they played. He pulled his _shemagh_ up over his chilled nose. The night had been particularly cold and their fuel supply too low to allow a fire all night. The cold had lingered into today, so they had brought their late morning game here in search of warmth. Many other prisoners had come as well, over two dozen men spread throughout. One of them was Greyson, who had slept late and now stood up from where he had been washing. As he dried his face—heavy with stubble—his gaze swung around the pool until it came to rest on the checkers match. Scratching himself, he sauntered over.

            Talia cast a baleful look at the American before returning her concentration to the board. Greyson offered a cool grin, his index finger twisting in one ear as if he had water in it.

            “I heard you talking to Yemi this morning,” the American said in a tired drawl.

            “What of it?” Bane growled with little interest.

            “You don’t really mean to go through with it, do you?”

            “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

            Greyson chuckled darkly. “You don’t stand a chance fighting him. He’ll tear your arms off.”

            “Bane can beat him,” Talia said.

            “My money says he can’t.”

            “Then I’m betting against you,” she replied, still looking only at the board, one finger poised upon a red piece.

            Greyson laughed humorlessly. “With what? The reason your guard dog is gonna fight is because you have damn little left in your cell to eat or keep you warm.”

            “I have my toys.”

            “And what would I want with them?”

            “You could use them for fuel.”

            “Henri,” Bane scolded. “Don’t wager your toys.”

            “It’s all right,” she insisted. “You’re going to beat Yemi, so it’s not as if I’d lose them.”

            “Smarter if _you_ burned ’em,” Greyson said with a cruel glint in his eyes, reminding Bane of Osito’s loss. “Because as sure as shit you’ll lose ’em betting on Bane.”

            “Will not.” Now Talia’s attention turned to the man, irritated by his continued presence. “Go away, Greyson; we’re trying to concentrate on our game.”

            “Oh…feisty again today, I see.” He leaned toward her with a baiting smile, one he often used when verbally tormenting her, as he liked to do on a regular basis, always pushing it until just before Bane took matters into his own hands. “Maybe _you_ should fight Yemi; you’d probably do better than Bane. I might even lay some money on you.”

            With a scowl, Talia stood on the bench. “Bane can beat Yemi. Bane can beat anyone, even Hans.”

            “Oh, you are a dreamer, aren’t you?” Greyson reached toward her, as if to pinch her cheek, but Talia swatted his hand away.

            The American straightened with a derogatory laugh. “Is that all you’ve got, kid? Hasn’t Bane or that fucking Mongol taught you anything more?”

            “Henri,” Bane cautioned, ready to physically intervene but waiting until the last minute, lest he draw her ire, as he had many times in the past when he protected her from Greyson.

            Talia ignored him, hopping off the bench. Greyson pretended to be afraid, backing a step away.

            “C’mon, kid. Show me what you’ve got.”

            Talia did not hesitate but went at Greyson, swinging both fists. Bane started to stand. Greyson fended off the blows with his palms, laughing harshly, which only angered Talia even more until she tried to kick him as well.

            “Holy shit, kid, you fight like a fucking girl.”

            With savage fury, she landed a kick to Greyson’s shin, shouted, “I _am_ a girl!”

            Greyson’s grin vanished. The shaft went silent. Talia froze.

            “ _What_ did you say?” Greyson measured out the words.

            Talia paled, and her frightened gaze went to Bane.

            “A _girl_?” Greyson turned to Bane, growled, “You knew…didn’t you? All along… _you knew_.”

            In the next instant, before Greyson could grab for Talia, Bane launched himself at the man, yelled, “Run!”

            Greyson fell beneath Bane’s weight, the air driven from his lungs. Bane landed one dazing blow before he scrambled after Talia, who was racing up the nearest steps. Around them the shaft exploded with shouts and movement, all of the inmates heading in Talia’s direction. Bane knew there was no hope for reaching the safety of their cell, for it lay on the opposite side of the shaft.

            “Get to the top,” he cried.

            One man already blocked their path, his face masked by his _shemagh_ , his eyes aglow with excitement. He clutched at Talia, but she ducked beneath his hands, darted sideways and continued on. Bane barreled into the man and knocked him backward down the opposite steps then rushed after Talia without missing a beat.

            “You have to climb,” he called to her.

            With flashing agility, Talia continued to evade the prisoners, always choosing the right staircases to ascend, never faltering. Bane knew without looking that the commotion was drawing more prisoners to the stepwell. He prayed that one of them was Temujin.

            Another man blocked Talia’s path, a lurid grin on his face, but Talia dove between his legs and Bane plowed into him with a roar. They grappled momentarily, but Bane overpowered him and tossed him over the side, knocking two other men into each other. Bane charged after Talia. One more flight…

            Talia’s eyes were glued upward as she reached the top of the stepwell. Her movements slowed, as if she were alone in the shaft, sizing up the daunting task ahead. She stepped toward the wall as Bane rushed up the stairs, men on his heels, too close… He wheeled and kicked the nearest inmate back into the others. From the opposite side of the staircase, others were racing upward. No more time…

            In one smooth movement, Bane turned back to Talia, hands lifting her up, up to safety, beyond their reach.

            “Climb, Talia,” he said. “Climb and don’t look back!”

            A blow from the right, hard into Bane’s kidney. He whirled toward the attacker, drove his shoulder and elbow into the man’s head, but the inmate did not fall. Bane gripped the prisoner’s shoulders, drove his head against the man’s skull. The inmate’s knees buckled, and he fell. Another prisoner charged from the flank. Bane’s right forearm slammed into his throat, staggering him back, gagging. But there were more, many more behind this one. Another from the opposite steps. Bane warded off the man’s blow, clasped his hands behind the prisoner’s neck, pulled the man’s head down into his rising knee. With a sickening crack, it connected with the inmate’s face. Bane flung him to the right, into yet another advancing foe, knocking them both aside.

            They kept coming, a double-sided assault. Bane used every and any tactic he had ever learned, always in motion, throwing endless blows, bowling men back into one another and down the steps, scratching and clawing and kicking them off him. He would not let them near the wall, would not allow even one of them to attempt to climb after Talia. His frenzied defense and the men’s uncoordinated attacks worked in his favor for a short while, but the numbers…the numbers only increased until a wall of snarling men closed upon him from all directions. A blur of arms and clothing, covered faces, blazing eyes. The heat of the struggle rose up to suffocate him. Hands all over him, tearing, tugging, ripping. But he would not fall, not until he saw her one last time.

            She was far up the wall, the size of a fly. Relief brought a strange calm to Bane. Nothing down here mattered now. All that mattered was up there, climbing higher, higher toward the light. She paused just then, looked back. _No_ , he thought, _don’t look down, not down_. The light from above, just as the sun reached its zenith, touched upon her pale, frightened countenance. _Don’t be afraid_ , he wanted to say as the _shemagh_ was yanked from his face, but instead only one word passed his lips.

            “Good-bye.”

            The next moment, she wisely turned away, and Bane abandoned the struggle, let them take him down, down into the darkness, the heat, where he could not breathe, where there was only pain. Blackness swallowed him. He no longer cared. He allowed them to vent their rage and frustration on him because this time they could not win—she was safely beyond their reach.


	71. Chapter 71

            It took all of Bane’s power of concentration and waning strength to identify and decipher the distant, echoing voices around him. Hans…yes, that was Hans. And the doctor, of course. Another…perhaps Abrams…

            “Jesus Christ, Doc, he’s a fucking mess. We need to get him to the surface.”

            When Assad replied, his voice was thick with impairment and—even worse—fear. “Even if I could get word to our jailers, there is no one to send him to.”

            “What about the doctor who operated on his back?” Hans now.

            “He is no longer at the clinic.”

            “Then have them find someone else.”

            “It was Melisande’s mother who helped him last time; she supplied payment for his treatment.”

            “Then get word to her, for fuck’s sake,” Abrams snarled, his tangible presence looming closer, as if he were standing over Assad.

            “There is no way. Melisande paid handsomely for her communication. I have nothing to give them.”

            “Then listen to me, God damn you,” Abrams continued. “You’d better sober up and figure a way to help him.”

            “But…” Assad’s voice trembled. “What can I do? What can anyone do? He needs reconstructive surgery. All I can do is medicate him to fight infection.”

            “And give him some fucking morphine. That is if you have any left, you weak, selfish son of a bitch.”

            “Y—yes, there is some. But it will only go so far until we are resupplied. That won’t be for another week.”

            The doctor made a sharp, terrified noise, and it sounded as if a chair or stool tipped over.

            “You will give me what you have.” Hans again, foreboding but far more controlled than Abrams. “All of it.”

            “I can’t.”

            “ _Ja_ , you will or I will kill you myself. I’ll not trust you with administering the drug to him.”

            “Fuck, no,” Abrams said. “The kid’ll never get it. Time for you to clean up, Doc. No fucking time like the present.”

            “No, you can’t. I assure you that he will receive what he needs.”

            “Sure, he will—after your daily fix,” Abrams said. “Now let’s go get the shit. Hans will stay with the kid.”

            The familiar squeal of Bane’s cell door opening and closing. Bane struggled to regain consciousness, but the agony throughout his body, particularly his face, fought against him. The pain trickled tears from the outer corners of his closed eyes. Breathing through his nose was impossible; no doubt it was broken and certainly lacerated, for he could feel the shaft’s chill shooting into exposed nerves. His tongue—thick and dry—explored his mouth; teeth broken, missing, many of them. The iron taste of blood. Lips torn. Face burning. Perhaps his jaw was broken. He tried to raise his hand to explore the damage.

            “No, Bane,” Hans’s voice, gentle now, a strong hand restraining Bane’s arm; it did not require much. “The doc just cleaned you up; don’t contaminate it.”

            Bane tried to open his eyes, but one was completely swollen shut, and the other he could barely crack. He struggled against the excruciating pain, worked to form words.

            “H—Henri?” The “r” came out mutilated and distorted. The single word caused him to inadvertently emit a creak of agony. He writhed against his charpoy.

            “He…she made it out,” Hans said, his tone lightening. “Still can’t believe it. She climbed all the way.” The German’s hand briefly touched his shoulder. “So don’t worry about her. She’s free now, thanks to you.”

            This was all Bane needed to know. He no longer fought the darkness that pulled at him, dragged him away from Hans. She was gone. She was safe. Now all she had to do was find Maysam. The letter, of course, was not with her, but she knew its content word for word and knew from Melisande’s instructions how to locate her grandmother. Surely Maysam would believe her story, would recognize Melisande in Talia’s visage and help her at least to unite with her father. And perhaps together they could find Bane’s father and tell him that he had a son. Maybe there was hope of rescue. But…he did not linger upon that thought because it did not matter, as long as she was away from here. Of course she must not have thrown down the ropes. She would have figured him dead and certainly would not have rewarded his murderers and the murderers of her mother with freedom. But how was he alive? Vaguely he remembered someone coming to his aid, just before he lost consciousness. Hans perhaps? Temujin?

            He drifted away, far away, into a timeless void, a place with no light and little else but pain. Sometimes he was aware of someone near; he would hear Hans’s voice or Abrams. He cringed whenever he detected Doctor Assad; his presence always meant fresh pain, for he would remove the swath of bandages that covered every inch of his head except his eyes, then he would clean the wounds before wrapping him with fresh bandages, fingers trembling all the while. In his muddled mind Bane wondered if the bandages were all that held his face to his skull. Even now the wounds bled; he could feel the damp stickiness trapped by the bandages. Perhaps it would be best if the antibiotics ran out and infection set in, then he could escape this torment.

            But whenever he considered the release of death, he always saw either Melisande or his mother. Melisande would sit at his bedside and remind him of his promise to take care of Talia. _But_ , he argued, _I have; she’s free now, she’ll find her father_. But Melisande would simply smile and say that Talia would always need him and he would always need her. They were inexorably bound to one another, an unbreakable chain forged here in this pit.

            In turn, his mother reminded him of his oath to find his father, to tell him what had happened to her, to them. She sometimes sang to him, holding his hand. Only those moments gave him comfort and relief. Perhaps that was when the morphine was freshly administered. No, he told himself, drugs had nothing to do with it; she was here, as she had been for those first thirteen years.

            Other times Bane saw his father. A shadowy figure who most often lingered just out of reach, who did not speak. Bane tried to call him near, but the effort to form words brought only anguish. Yet when the wavering image withdrew, Bane was confident that he would return, so confident that eventually he had convinced himself that his father would, in reality, be the one who would find him here in the pit. Edmund Dorrance would pull him out and restore him to health, would give him back his humanity.

#

            The injuries to Bane’s mouth made eating solid food impossible. Even dosed with morphine and with his food reduced to finely mashed fruit, the pain was too great for him to tolerate anything more than water. Almost as excruciating was any attempt to speak, so he avoided doing so. Communication was done through writing on a slate, the same slate he had used as a child to learn how to write and which Talia, in turn, had utilized as well.

            By the second week he was able to sit up, Melisande’s blanket wrapped always around him, for he was eternally cold from lack of exercise. Though he tried to detect Talia’s scent upon the cherished blanket, the damage to his nose robbed him of that ability.

            Temujin and Hans visited him every day, though they did not stay long, easily sensing Bane’s melancholy and desire for solitude. Bane knew he should make a better effort to show his appreciation for their solicitude. After all, Abrams had told him that it was indeed Temujin and Hans who had come to his rescue the day Talia had escaped.

            “If not for them,” Abrams had said, “you would’ve been little more than meat by the time the others got through with you.”

            When soldiers arrived with fresh supplies, Doctor Assad petitioned for Bane’s removal to a medical facility. But when Assad had nothing of significant value to offer them for such a service, they only laughed at him. Bane did not even try to change their minds by showing them the horrors that had been wrought upon his face. Instead he sat at the back of his cell, as far away from the light as he could, waiting in frozen agony for his next shot of morphine.

            Nights without Talia were even more unbearable than the days. Her warm closeness, her sense of humor and love…everything about her left a gaping void somehow even worse than when Melisande had died. She seemed to have taken with her all of his energy and desire to live. Of course he knew that she would be disappointed in him if he did not fight on, but such a struggle was harder and harder to maintain as each day passed without her and without the purpose her presence had given him. He relived those lonely, frightening days between his mother’s death and Melisande’s arrival. Even without these haunting thoughts, loneliness and the torture of his wounds made sleep anything but restful. This and his liquid diet quickly caused him to drop weight.

            Though Bane had never prayed before, he prayed to Allah and any other god who might listen that Talia had found her father, that she was safe and happy. As each day passed without rescue, though, Bane began to despair that perhaps something had happened to Talia, that maybe when she had tried to contact Maysam, her grandfather had learned of her existence. What if he had ordered her killed? Who would be there to protect her?

            He came to spend his days sitting in the stepwell, often dozing under the influence of morphine or laudanum, cloaked in an old blanket; he never brought Melisande’s blanket to the shaft, for his debilities would hinder any defense he would need should one of the other prisoners try to steal the treasured article. But most of the inmates left him alone, dismissed his gruesome form sitting with his aching back against the stone. A few sent hateful remarks his way, either cursing him for hiding Talia’s gender from them or gloating over his mental and physical torment. In the past he would have planned revenge for not only their comments but for what they had done to him, yet now he did not care, did not think; doing so took too much effort.

#

            Even in his medicinal haze, Bane was aware of blood once again oozing through the facial bandages. A short while ago, the doctor had removed yesterday’s dressings and irrigated the wounds before wrapping him in fresh layers of gauze, like the mummies Bane had seen in books. But the mummies did not bleed through their bindings. The cycle was a vicious one—the bandages needed to be clean, yet every time the old ones were removed, they pulled away any forming scabs. Assad knew not what to do to remedy this.

            After the doctor had tended to him, Bane had shuffled out to his usual spot in the shaft. There he sat with his knees drawn up, arms folded across them, draped in his oldest blanket. He leaned his swathed head back against the stone of one of the staircases and looked up to the mouth of the shaft, to the glaring sky, prayed again for Talia. Yet when he dozed off and a dream came to him, it was not about her—it was about his father.

            The dream came so vividly, so real. In it, Edmund Dorrance rappelled into the stepwell. As he came, the prisoners in the shaft began shouting, alarmed by his appearance; Bane could hear them so clearly. Then the inmates started to scramble away. His father was armed. Gunfire shattered the air, disturbing Bane. He groaned and tried to sink deeper into the dream, to will his father near.

            A tentative touch upon his arm. Real or dreamt? Bane kept his eyes closed but sensed someone beside him. Hopefully not the damn doctor come to torture him further.

            “Bane?”

            An unfamiliar voice, definitely near, somehow heard over the gunfire. Bane cracked open his weary eyelids. A man stared back at him with deep, incredulous concern, sharp blue-gray eyes in a weathered, broad face adorned with a thin brown mustache and goatee.

            With faint hope, Bane struggled to form one word, “Father?”

            “No…I’m Henri Ducard…Talia’s father.”


	72. Chapter 72

            Bane studied Ducard, still not sure if he was awake or asleep. Then he noticed other newcomers in the shaft—lithe men in black garb at various intervals, firing automatic weapons at fleeing prisoners. Astounding noise, nearly deafening amidst the stone walls. Inmates dropped dead, others screamed and fell wounded, only to be shot again until they no longer moved.

            “She told me about you,” Ducard said, closer to Bane, as if nothing were taking place around them. “She said there were others who helped her—four men.” Ducard produced a scrap of paper from inside his vest, a rustic garment made from the pelt of some pale, coarse-haired animal. “Where can we find these men?”

            Through his bleary gaze, Bane read the names of Doctor Assad, Hans, Temujin, and Abrams. He nodded his understanding, realized now that he was indeed awake. Incredulous relief rushed through him like a soothing warm breeze.

            “Can you stand?” Ducard asked.

            Again Bane nodded, though he was suddenly trembling so badly that he was uncertain of maintaining his feet once up. Carefully, Ducard assisted him, seemed to feel his instability and thus did not let go of him. Ducard’s men had ceased firing, apparently awaiting their leader’s instructions.

            “I will gather the others,” Ducard called to the assassins. “Then you will proceed with my orders.”

            Bane took them to Hans first, for he was the closest. They passed cells where other prisoners had taken cover. Some tried to conceal themselves beneath blankets or behind meager furnishings. Some were silent, others cried out for mercy, though of course they knew not why they were about to be murdered. When some began to realize that these strangers were somehow Bane’s allies, wild claims sprang forth, men insisting that they had not harmed Bane, nor Talia, nor even Melisande. A wild display of desperation that Ducard ignored.

            They found Hans seated patiently on his charpoy, as if awaiting the inevitable. When he saw Bane, he stood, curiosity loosening his jaw.

            Bane, with Ducard’s paper in hand, pointed to Hans’s name and nodded to Ducard. Then he gestured to Hans to come out. The German did not appear completely convinced.

            “I mean you no harm,” Ducard assured. “We have come to liberate you. My daughter—the child you knew as Henri—spoke highly of you. For that, you will be spared.”

            Hans’s glance went to Bane, who nodded again to encourage him. Warily the German unlocked his door. Bane could tell that Hans’s hesitation was not because of any mistrust toward him or his strange rescuer but because the very idea of liberation after all these years was an unbelievable concept.

            From there, they went to find Temujin, who was just then cautiously coming along the corridor from his cell. He staggered to a halt when he saw Henri Ducard.

            “It _is_ you,” the Mongol said, blinking as if into a strong light. “When they described the men coming down the shaft, I wondered…” A grin stretched across his swarthy face as he reached for Ducard’s offered hand.

            “How are you, old friend?” Ducard smiled back, showing a warmth that, up until now, Bane could not have imagined existed in the grave-faced man who towered over the others.

            “A bit worn, my friend, and happy to see you.”

            “It would seem your bad fortune has been a blessing to me.”

            “Sometimes the world works that way,” Temujin grinned. Then he touched Bane’s shoulder. “Well, my young bull, it seems our little angel has delivered you just in time. You are in good hands now. No more of that bungling doctor.”

            “Come,” Ducard said. “We have the doctor and one other to gather.”

            “Then what?” Temujin asked the question that Bane had been unable to rally enough courage or physical ability to form.

            “Then these men will feel my vengeance, not just for my daughter and for Bane, but for Melisande.”

            Hearing Ducard say his wife’s name sent an odd sensation through Bane as they started in the direction of Abrams’s cell. What was it? Nostalgia? Jealousy? To realize that the man of whom Melisande had spoken so often over the years was this very same man who now moved with long strides beside him… Surely this was all a dream, and he would soon awaken. Seeing Ducard in the flesh left Bane feeling irrelevant, as if everything he had done for Melisande had meant little in comparison to the power this man wielded. An intoxicating charisma oozed from Talia’s father; Bane had witnessed its power the minute Temujin had recognized Ducard in the corridor. And he saw it in the cold eyes of Ducard’s cohort, one of whom joined them as they neared Bane’s cell.

            Abrams stared at them as the group approached. He showed no fear. Indeed, for a moment, Bane thought he saw relief on the man’s tough face—not relief that salvation might be near but that death might soon claim him. Bane pointed to his name on the list for Ducard.

            “Hans,” Abrams said. “What in hell’s going on?”

            “Unlock the door,” Hans replied. “They’re freeing us.”

            Abrams’s disbelieving gaze went to Bane who nodded and waved for him to come out. As he did so, Abrams asked Ducard, “Who the hell are you? Do you run this prison?”

            “No,” came the reply with a touch of intolerance, like one unaccustomed to being questioned

            Bane turned to his own cell, fumbled with his key, hands shaking. He hurried inside and retrieved Melisande’s blanket as well as the writing slate and chalk. When Ducard saw the blanket, he stepped over to the door as Bane came out. Bane draped it around his neck, lifted one corner for Ducard’s perusal. The man stood there, speechless, something Bane figured rarely happened. For that brief moment when Ducard’s fingers caressed the fabric, Bane saw a completely different man—not the leader of a team of assassins, but a husband and father. His gaze lifted to Bane in silent appreciation. Then, in the next instant, Ducard banished his emotions from view.

            Ducard said, “Take me to the doctor.”

            Bane led the way around the shaft to Assad’s cell. Assad sat upon his charpoy, head in hand, as if he had just awoken from a deep sleep with a pounding headache. He did not appear unnerved by the recent gunfire and the black-clad gunmen in the shaft, as if he had been expecting them.

            “Get up, Doc,” Abrams called. “We’re getting the hell out of here.”

            Assad lifted his head, frowned in confusion at them, his gaze cloudy as it wandered to Ducard. Then some of his fuzziness seemed to clear. Slowly he climbed to his feet and opened the door.

            But Bane barred the doctor’s exit. He scrawled hastily upon the slate and shoved it at him.

            Assad read aloud: “‘Who sent my mother here?’” Now the drug-induced fog lifted from his startled eyes. “I—I don’t remember, Bane.”

            Angrily, adamantly, Bane tapped the chalk against the slate, pressed it at the doctor.

            “Bane,” Abrams said, “can’t you ask him this later? Let’s get out of here.”

            Bane shook his head, staring only at Assad. The chalk tapped upon the word “who.”

            Assad stammered, “Perhaps in time I will remember…”

            Bane threw the slate at him then grabbed Ducard’s sidearm from his belt, aimed it at Assad who backed away. Abrams and Hans immediately sent up a protest and reached for the pistol, but Ducard calmly held them back.

            “Wait,” Ducard ordered, the natural authority in his gravelly voice restraining the men. His interested gaze swung from Bane to Assad as he said, “I suggest you give him the information he desires, Doctor.”

            Assad swallowed, nodded shakily, hesitated. “Before I tell him,” Assad said to Ducard, “you should know that the man responsible for the imprisonment of Bane’s mother is a powerful man. He could very well see to Bane’s end if he learns of his existence.”

            “Tell me!” Bane demanded, hiding the pain his muffled effort exacerbated.

            Again Assad swallowed hard. “His name is Thomas Dorrance. He was a British diplomat at the time he sent your mother here.” He hesitated as Bane’s eyes widened at this news. “He is your grandfather.”

            Bane stared in disbelief, the pistol momentarily sagging.

            “Jesus,” Abrams grumbled then quickly recovered. “All right, damn it. You got what you wanted, Bane, now let him out.”

            Bane swallowed his shock, aimed the gun, growled, “No.”

            Abrams scowled. “No?”

            The prospect of stringing entire, painful sentences together or lowering the pistol in order to write his reasons on the slate did not appeal to Bane, so instead he looked pointedly at Hans, rasped out, “Melisande.”

            “Bane,” Hans said, “you can’t be serious. You really want to condemn him for one mistake, an accident? Think of all the good things he’s done—”

            “ _Tell_ him,” Bane repeated, flashing his glance at Ducard.

            Ducard crossed his arms with an air of impatience. “We don’t have much time, gentlemen.”

            “Bane,” Assad entreated. “Please…”

            Hans looked to Abrams as if in search of an ally, but Abrams remained silent, though he did not appear any more pleased with the situation than Hans. So at last Hans capitulated. “The day your wife died…it was Doctor Assad who accidentally left her cell unlocked.” Quickly, before Ducard could react, he rushed on, “But he’s done many good things as well, including delivering your daughter. He’s paid for his mistake many times over; it’s nearly destroyed him.”

            Ducard’s only overt reaction to this news was a deepening of color upon his cheeks, though Bane also detected a flash of outrage in his eyes, one that was quickly masked. Talia’s obvious effort to shield Assad gave Bane a moment of hesitation. But then he pushed aside his innate habit of giving her anything she wanted and instead thought only of Melisande.

            “My daughter did not tell me of the doctor’s part in her mother’s murder. No doubt her omission was because of what you say are the doctor’s finer attributes. However, hearing this news, I am inclined to agree with Bane. The doctor will be spared, but he will not be freed.”

            “Spared from what?” Abrams asked suspiciously.

            Assad’s shoulders slowly slumped in despair, but he did not look away from Bane. The sadness there, the memories of all they had shared, the companionship…Bane would not allow any of it to chase away the image of Melisande in that second when her eyes had locked with his before he took Talia out of her cell and away from her attackers.

            “Bane,” Hans tried again. “You can’t let this happen.”

            “Come,” Ducard said to the others with a final harsh look at Assad, “we have wasted enough time here.”

            He held out his hand for the pistol. Surrendering it, Bane caught a glint of satisfaction in Ducard’s eyes.

            “The will to act,” Ducard said. “An admirable quality, Bane.”

            Ducard led the way back toward the shaft. Bane ignored the simmering stares of his two friends.

            When they reached the stepwell, Bane halted, gestured back toward his cell, said to Hans, “Yemi.”

            Ducard turned back to them, a questioning eyebrow raised.

            Hans explained, “He wants us to take Yemi with us.”

            “Talia did not mention the name.”

            To Hans, Bane mimed with his arms as if he held an infant.

            “Yemi helped save Talia,” Hans expounded, “when she was kidnapped as a baby by one of the inmates.”

            Bane nodded hopefully at Ducard.

            “Very well.” Ducard gestured to the member of his team who had been accompanying them. “Go with Hans and locate this man.” Then to another of the assassins who waited nearby, expressionless, stolid yet attentive, like a cannon loaded and primed, waiting for the lanyard to be pulled, “As soon as they locate their man, you will proceed with my orders.”

            The masked man gestured to the others of his team, and their numbers fanned out, several to each level of the prison. Their silent communications, their alacrity in obeying their leader instilled admiration in Bane.

            Ducard continued around the shaft. “Can you climb, Temujin?” he asked without looking back at the man.

            “I hope you do not mean without a rope,” the Mongol joked, his levity in this atmosphere striking even to Bane.

            One corner of Ducard’s mustache twitched upward. “Only if you prefer one.”

            They came to where one of the black ropes reached the steps. Ducard handed it to Temujin, then retrieved a second line nearby. He gave it to Abrams.

            “Tie it around yourself, Mr. Abrams. My men at the surface will pull you up.”

            “No,” Abrams said. “Take the kid up first.”

            “There are other ropes,” Ducard pointed out. “No need for anyone to wait. I will help Bane up the shaft.”

            Though Bane knew he truly needed assistance, the prospect irritated him. Ducard might think him an invalid, but Bane wished to prove himself otherwise, no matter how outwardly battered he may appear. He reached for the rope. When Abrams stepped forward to help him, Bane brushed him off, shook his head. Abrams seemed to understand and backed off.

            Shortly after Bane began his ascent, gunfire erupted below, and for a time the world became nothing more than screams and the roar of endless rounds echoing from the corridors below. Ignoring Abrams’s curses off to his left, Bane felt nothing except a dull satisfaction as he remembered the day Melisande had been brutalized. His only regret was that those men did not die under his own hand.

            As he was gradually pulled upward, Bane had little to do but use his feet to fend himself away from the rough wall. Ducard remained just below him, in case he should require aid. Bane never looked down, nor did he pay attention to the waning gunfire far below or allow even a final glance back at his only home. Instead he stared upward at the sky, the mouth of the shaft growing ever larger. He tried to ignore the fact that he trembled in fear from head to toe. The thing he had always desired lay before him—not as a temporary thing, as when he had injured his spine, but as a permanence. So, why was he not elated? Momentarily he closed his burning eyes. The injuries…they robbed him of his triumph. He knew they were irreversible and that they would try to dictate how he would live his new life. Could he overcome them? And who would be there to help him? In the pit, he had knowledge of everything, but up there he knew nothing and no one.

            Past the ledges near the top of the shaft. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had stood upon the first one. The memory of his fall shook him, but he banished it. Never again would that shaft and its ledges mock him.

            One of Ducard’s men reached over the lip of the shaft, and Bane stretched an arm upward. The man—as impassive as those below—helped him over the side.

            Lightheaded and blinded by the hot sun, Bane bent over, hands braced upon his rubbery legs, panting. He closed his eyes, his heart racing.

            Someone gasped nearby, small and high-pitched—not a man; a sound that was somehow familiar.

            Slowly, his head throbbing and seeming to weigh more than the rest of his body, he looked up, squinting beneath the encroaching bandages. Then his heart seemed to stop beating, his lungs suddenly robbed of oxygen.

            From only a few steps away, standing near a truck, Talia stared at him, pale and frightened. She retreated a step, as if repulsed by the sight of him.

            Her reaction crushed Bane, brought tears to his searing eyes, ripped away what little strength he had left, drove him to his knees. He dropped his gaze into the blazing dust.

            “Bane?”

            Her tiny, tentative voice could not lift his head. He pressed his eyelids shut. Never, never had he imagined such pain, far more powerful than that which sought to destroy his body; this, this was something in his very soul. He wanted to return to the pit, to the cloaking darkness. He did not want her to have to look upon him, not that way.

            “Bane!” Recognition now in her voice. She ran to him, knelt in front of him, touched his arm, her other hand against Melisande’s blanket. “Bane,” she repeated tearfully. She took a hold of his right hand, kissed his crippled small finger, as she had for the past seven years, then she pressed his hand to her wet cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She began to sob.

            Bane lifted his head, touched her cheek with his left hand, shook his head. “No,” he managed to force through the gauze. “No.”

            She nodded. “It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.”

            Again he shook his head, pulled her into his arms.

            “I shouldn’t have told Greyson that I’m a girl. I didn’t mean to. It’s all my fault.”

            Bane pressed her tightly against his shoulder, tried to stifle her words. Soon her sobs drowned the endless apologies, and the two of them sat in the dust, clinging to one another as the merciless sun beat down upon them.


	73. Chapter 73

            Talia clambered into the back of the truck, a large, militaristic vehicle similar to the one that had taken Bane from the prison years ago. She turned back to assist Bane who was also aided by one of Ducard’s men. Once beneath the canvas and out of the sun, Bane still felt lightheaded and nauseous. There were wooden benches along each side of the truck bed, and Talia, holding his hand, led him over and sat beside him. Ducard’s man scrambled to the front to retrieve a canvas litter, which he proceeded to set up in the center of the truck bed. Its short supports slightly elevated it above the floorboards. Then the man gestured for Bane to lie down. Talia stood, pulling Bane by the hand, but he remained on the bench, shaking his head to show that he was fine where he was.

            “You must lie down,” Talia insisted, gently tugging at him. “You aren’t well.”

            Bane wished he could smile and tell her that indeed he was well, very well, now that they were together again. Instead he simply shook his head once more and patted the bench beside him.

            “Do as she says,” Ducard’s voice filled the truck, and they turned to see him at the tail of the vehicle. “You need hydration and nutrition for your journey, neither of which it appears you have been getting.” He nodded to the man busily setting up IV poles at the head of the litter. Ducard smiled at Bane, not warm but indulgent, authoritative…fatherly.

            When Abrams and Temujin appeared behind him, Ducard stepped aside so Abrams could climb into the truck, but Temujin he guided away. Bane struggled to hear their ensuing conversation, but his muffling bandages made the endeavor impossible.

            Talia’s insistent tugs continued until Bane moved to the litter. Before lying down, Bane removed Melisande’s blanket from his shoulders and offered it to Talia.

            She smiled appreciatively, saying, “You must keep it. Here, I will fold it so you can use it as a pillow.”

            Something about her solicitude and maternal indulgence reminded him so much of both his mother and Melisande that it put a lump in his throat and took him back to his youth. For the first time he could imagine Talia as a mother one day.

            By the time he was lying down, the blanket beneath his head and the IVs flowing, Hans and Yemi arrived. Both were flushed from the heat and out of breath from the climb. Yemi grinned dazzling white teeth in his dark countenance when he saw Bane, and he reached to shake his hand.

            “Thank you, my friend,” the big Nigerian said. “I was afraid my time was up.” Then he turned his smile upon Talia. “So it is not Henri after all, but Talia. How you managed to fool so many for so long I will never know, little one. But now, if you will permit me, I feel that I should thank you properly for delivering us.”

            Before Talia, blushing, could respond, Yemi took her free hand and kissed it, then patted it with his big paw, still grinning. Talia’s blush deepened, and she had to look away, but she could not conceal her happiness over the attention she was receiving from all the men. Even Bane’s reticent attendant flashed dark eyes at her that reflected guarded mirth.

            Talia remained sitting beside Bane’s litter, still holding his hand. She turned her smile upon him, as if to make sure he saw how happy she was. He was indeed pleased to see that the shadow of guilt that had darkened her face a short while ago had been at least temporarily banished.

            “What’s Jin talking to Ducard about?” Abrams asked.

            “About Bane,” Hans said. “About his injuries.”

            “Where the hell do you think they’ll take us?” Abrams continued, looking a bit concerned.

            “Wherever it is,” Yemi said, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back against the canvas, “it is better than where we have been.”

            “That’s not too hard,” Abrams said. “But who the hell are these people? I mean, what kind of power do they have that they can just come in here and blast the shit out of the place and leave? There’ll be hell to pay when someone finds out, which they sure as hell will.”

            “As long as we are far from here, I do not care,” Yemi said.

            Talia’s smile died away, and she would not look at anyone but Bane. He could see there were secrets already in her eyes, and he thought back to Temujin’s story of how he had met Henri Ducard. Even through the morphine, Bane felt a strong stirring of curiosity, and he hoped that he would get to see the place high in the mountains where Temujin had trained.

            More of Ducard’s men were leaving the pit now. There were two other trucks, and Bane heard their engines roar to life.

            At last Ducard and Temujin climbed into the truck. Ducard spoke to the attendant in a language unfamiliar to Bane, then he banged on the rear of the cab, and the truck lurched forward, leaving a swirl of dust behind.

            Ducard sat on the bench closest to Talia and leaned toward Bane so he could be heard over the truck’s noise as they bounced along.

            “We have a ways to go before we reach the hospital. We can give you a sedative, if you’d like.”

            Bane shook his head then gestured urgently for something upon which to write. Ducard spoke to the attendant who dug through the locker from which he had produced the medical equipment. He turned back with a small notepad and pen. With shaking hand, Bane scrawled his message, which Talia read aloud.

            “‘No hospital.’”

            Surprise furrowed Ducard’s brow. “We have no choice, Bane. Temujin has told me the extent of your injuries. They require surgery if you are to fully recover—”

            Adamant, Bane tapped the words on the pad, underlining the word _no_. Then he set the pad aside and took Talia’s hand in both of his, nodding empathetically at their physical union to make it clear that he did not want to be separated from her again. He had, after all, his promise to keep to Melisande. True enough, Ducard was her father, but Bane knew next to nothing about him or where he would take Talia. This was not the time to be torn asunder once again, injuries or no injuries. He had come this far; he would not abandon her now.

            Talia seemed to sense his urgent resolve, and she brought her other hand up to join his. She smiled tremulously, and he knew she understood where no one else could.

            “Where Talia and I are going, Bane, there is no medical facility.”

            Bane nodded his understanding, tightening his grip on Talia.

            “I cannot guarantee your recovery there,” Ducard continued gravely. “You are in a precarious state. You aren’t thinking clearly.”

            “Listen to him, kid,” Abrams insisted, followed by murmured agreement from Yemi and Hans.

            Still Bane shook his head. None of them knew what he had gone through at that clinic years ago. The isolation and fear, the way he had been treated. What if the people at the hospital sent him back to the pit or some other prison after he had recovered? And even if they did not, where would he go? How would he find Talia or even his own father without resources, Ducard’s resources? He could not assume that Ducard would be eager to help him beyond securing medical treatment. Perhaps the hospital was Ducard’s way of fulfilling his obligation to reward Bane’s years of loyalty to his family. Beyond that, why would he want a disfigured criminal clinging to his family?

            “Papa, he wants to stay with us.”

            “Sweetheart, your friend is badly injured; you can see that. He needs a doctor.”

            “You can help him. I know you can.”

            “Child, I am no physician.”

            “Please, Papa. Let him come with us. He’s afraid.”

            Ducard’s jaw tightened. Bane could tell that he wanted to speak sharply but instead held back his words, either out of pity for his child or because he did not wish to argue in front of the other men.

            He gathered himself and again addressed Bane in a calm but strong voice, “If you let this window of opportunity pass you by, young man, you may forfeit all hope of a normal life. Do you understand that?”

            Nodding, Bane wondered of what a normal life consisted. Whatever it was, he believed that even without his injuries such a life had no doubt been lost to him the day his mother had been condemned to the pit. There was only one thing in all of it that he knew he wanted with certainty, and he turned to her now, pleading with his eyes and through the grip of his hands. He could not bear to lose her again, nor could he take the chance that strangers might return him to the pit, especially after word got out about Ducard’s purge. He could not trust that Ducard would save him a second time.

            “Please, Papa,” Talia said. “Let us stay together.”

            Slight anger crept into Ducard’s tone now. “If he comes with us, you must realize that he could die from his injuries.”

            Fear sent her attention back to Bane, and for a moment she was speechless. Bane shook his head. Tears slipped from her eyes, and her lips trembled with indecision. Bane reached to tug at Melisande’s blanket beneath his head, to remind her of his promise to her mother.

            “But Papa’s here,” she sniffled. “I’m safe now. You don’t have to protect me anymore.”

            Even more stridently, he shook his aching head, snatched up the paper, wrote: _Stay together_.

            “Oh, Jesus,” Abrams groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation. “Just take the kid, Ducard, for the love of God. If there’s one thing I learned after nearly two decades of living next to him, it’s that you can’t talk a second of sense into him.”

            Talia stared at Abrams in surprise.

            “Well,” Abrams stammered at her, “you know it’s the truth, you of all people.” After a brief pause, Abrams offered a wan, sympathetic smile, which in turn seemed to ease Talia’s conscience, and she nearly returned the smile.

            “He _is_ a single-minded son of a bitch,” Temujin offered to Ducard as the tension dissipated. “If anyone can survive what he has been through, it is this one. And if he does, you just might find yourself with another warrior to join your merry little band of miscreants.”

            “He is a fine fighter,” Hans added proudly. “I should know…I trained him.”

            But Ducard still appeared unconvinced. Thoughtfully, he stroked his goatee. Bane held his gaze, tried to convey his tenacity. Talia left Bane's side to stand between Ducard’s knees and take her father’s face in her hands. Her touch drew a smile from him. Bane knew that Ducard was seeing Melisande as much as his daughter, for his cheek twitched once, revealing his pain, the same pain that Bane felt.

            “Please, Papa,” she said, so softly that Bane could barely hear her over the noise of the truck.

            Even before Ducard responded, Bane knew that the man could not deny Talia, not after being absent for ten horrific years, not after someone not of his blood had cared for and protected her while he lived in comfortable ignorance, someone who had never denied her anything. It all made Bane wonder what Talia had told her father about him.

            “Very well,” Ducard said at last, sighing. “If this is what you both want.”

            Talia smiled and hugged him. “Thank you, Papa.”

            Bane wrote his thanks on the paper for Ducard to read. He nodded wearily to Bane and offered a faint, empathetic smile, as if he was just now realizing that Bane knew more about being a father than he did.

#

            Day turned into night, and still they traveled on over rough roads. With the sun’s setting, the heat that the ex-prisoners were so unaccustomed to lessened. They had forsook their tattered, vermin-loving prison clothes—throwing them out of the truck—for clean garments, which Ducard’s man had produced from one of the lockers at the front of the truck. As Talia helped Bane undress, she gasped at the sight of his fading bruises and healing lacerations, and fussed over him endlessly until her father insisted that she come sit next to him so Bane could rest.

            Bane drifted in and out under the influence of his morphine drip. Conversations died off as all fell asleep except Ducard. Now and then, when Bane was lucid enough, he found Ducard reading what seemed to be a map by the glow of a small flashlight. Another time he appeared to be engrossed in a compact, leather-bound book. Bane studied his facial features, remembered Melisande’s private smile whenever she had spoken of his good looks. Yet no matter how long he looked at Ducard, Bane could not imagine him with Melisande. She had been, after all, such a small, delicate thing, like a flower, while Ducard was more like a sturdy, tall tree. A formidable man indeed, as she had said. Ducard did not turn to him during his perusal, but Bane had a feeling that the man was well aware of his interest. Just as Bane would begin to wish that Ducard would look at him, he would drift off again into the opiate’s cloud.

            Talia slept alternately with her head in her father’s lap or sitting tightly against Ducard, his arm around her. But somewhere deep in the night, when Ducard had shut off his flashlight and familiar darkness swallowed them, Talia sat beside Bane’s litter and held his hand. Just as he began to wish he could sing to her, he heard her through the jostling noise of the vehicle, softly lilting one of her mother’s songs. Then, when she was through, Bane shifted onto his side, and without needing a word of invitation she crawled onto the litter and nestled in the curve of his body, as she had done for so many years in the pit. With his IV lines carefully threaded out of the way, he protectively draped an arm over her. She kissed his hand and held it close, and for the first time since losing her to the world of light Bane slipped away into restful sleep.

            Morning found them this way when the truck stopped. As Bane slowly opened his eyes, Ducard’s attention lay upon them, troubled and pensive, and Bane knew he was thinking of the years during which he had been deprived of his child. When their eyes met and held for a long moment, they exchanged silent understanding, gratitude, regret, and sadness. Ducard offered a small, tight smile before getting to his feet, too tall to stand straight in the confining space.

            “Wake up, gentlemen,” he said, then waited for the men to regain their senses.

            Bane flinched at a strange, loud noise that passed over the truck. This awoke Talia, who immediately noticed his concern.

            “It’s an airplane,” she said with a smile of discovery. “I’ve seen them flying before.” She seemed pleased to know something that he did not.

            “Where are we?” Abrams groggily asked.

            “An airstrip,” Ducard replied. “This is where we part company, gentlemen. A plane awaits you. You will be taken to whatever location you desire.” Ducard made his way to the rear of the truck and climbed out. There he turned back to them. “I will speak to the pilot while you say your good-byes.” With that, he moved away into the first pale hint of morning light.

            Bane struggled to sit up, and for an awkward moment he looked at his friends who stood from their benches except for Temujin. Yemi leaned toward Bane and offered his hand.

            “Thank you, my friend. I wish you a swift recovery.” Yemi turned a smile upon Talia. “It would appear you are in good hands now.”

            Bane nodded and put his arm around Talia, drawing her against his side.

            “Good-bye, Yemi,” Talia said, speaking for both of them.

            The big Nigerian returned Bane’s nod and struggled past the others to debark.

            Abrams knelt on one knee beside the litter, his face an unusual shade of red. He cleared his throat and shook Bane’s hand.

            “Take care of yourself, kid,” he said then reached across Bane to tap Talia’s nose, causing her to smile. “And you, too… _Talia_.” He grinned teasingly. “A more fitting name, I think. But I can still call you Henri, if you prefer.”

            “No,” she said, pretending to be insulted.

            “Well, you keep Bane out of trouble, all right?”

            “I will.”

            Bane had located the pad of paper and wrote: _Where will you go_?

            “Hans and I are going to head to Germany for now. Get some rest and decent food.” He winked. “Among other things. I’ll check out those _fräuleins_. And Hans tells me he has a sister who’s not as ugly as him.”

            Bane nearly laughed but the pain cautioned him against it.

            “Then,” Abrams continued, “I’ll figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life, now that I have one, thanks to you two.” The grin drifted away into sheltered, deeper emotions, and he took Bane’s hand in both of his. “Hang in there, kid. And good luck finding your father.”

            “Thank…you,” Bane managed, for he needed Abrams to _hear_ his heartfelt gratitude. “For…everything.”

            Abrams frowned at his discomfort, touched his arm once, then turned toward the tailgate. He paused in front of Temujin, asked, “Are you coming with us?”

            The Mongol glanced at Bane and Talia before offering his hand to Abrams. “No, brother. I will be staying with our young bull for a while.”

            Pleased, Abrams nodded and shook Temujin’s hand before he climbed out of the truck.

            Hans crouched next to Talia, but unlike Abrams the big German did not attempt to hide his emotions. He offered a melancholy smile then put one hand on Talia’s shoulder and the other on Bane’s. Talia already had tears in her eyes.

            “I hope I will see you both again, in better times.”

            Talia sniffled. “Why don’t you come with us?”

            Hans glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t think I am in your father’s plans, Talia.” His smile brightened. “You know, there were times in the pit when I suspected you might be a girl, especially this past year. And you know why?”

            “Why?”

            “Because I could see your mother in your eyes and in Bane’s when he would look at you.”

            Now Talia let out a choked sob and threw her arms around Hans’s neck. He embraced her, crooning, “No, no. No crying. We should all be happy. Who thought we would ever really see this day?”

            “I don’t want you to go. We need you.”

            Hans chuckled and pried her away. “You will be just fine without me, though I hope you miss me a little.” He winked, and she sniffed back her tears, nodding. “Perhaps one day we will all see each other again.”

            “Hope…so,” Bane struggled. “Thank…you. For…everything.”

            “You are more than welcome, but I’m the one who should be thanking both of you.” He offered them one last smile, then with a final pat on Bane’s shoulder, he got to his feet. “Now I must be going before Abrams grows surly.” He grinned.

            “ _Auf_ _Wiedersehen_ ,” Talia said with a proud smile.

            “That is for strangers,” Hans chided. “Among such good friends, we say _tschüss, ja_?”

            She blushed over her mistake. “ _Ja_ , _mein Freund_.”

            “Much better. And I expect Bane will continue your schooling. Next time I see you, you will be speaking German better than me.”

            Talia followed him to the tailgate, and once he had climbed out, he turned back to kiss her cheek and raise a hand to Bane in farewell. Then he turned away, and Bane watched him stride resolutely for the waiting aircraft, leaving him with a heavy heart as Talia continued to call her good-byes.


	74. Chapter 74

            Bane tried not to scream as the old dressings were removed. His effort was not simply out of pride because of Henri Ducard looking on, but out of concern that Talia would hear. Yet neither his resolve, the morphine, nor the care with which he was treated by the medico were enough to restrain his outcry. His fingers gripped the edges of the table upon which he lay, and cold sweat drenched him even in the warm room.

            “You must lie still,” the man ordered in irritation.

            Someone banged on the door, but neither that sudden noise nor Talia’s frightened voice on the other side stirred Ducard.

            “Papa, let me in! You _must_ let me in!”

            “Talia,” Ducard said, raising his voice just enough to be heard. “You will be silent and wait. This is no place for a child.”

            “But, Papa, Bane needs me!”

            Temujin’s voice from beyond the door now: “There you are. I take my eyes off you for a second and here you are causing trouble. Come back outside.”

            Bane tried to pay attention to what was happening to Talia instead of to himself, but as the doctor began to flush the wounds, he could think of nothing but the pain.

            “Well?” Ducard asked. “Do you think you will be able to help him?”

            The middle-aged man, speaking in Urdu, did not look hopeful. “Perhaps. What he needs right now is a hospital, but since he refuses your advice on that point, there is little that can be done at this time except keep the wounds clean and give them time to heal, if they are indeed able to heal on their own. While you are here, I will take measurements. It will be only a prototype, of course, seeing as how I’ve never designed one for damage this extensive. You must give me some time.”

            The agony that gripped Bane’s entire head killed any curiosity he might have concerning the two men’s discussion. He pressed his eyes shut as the doctor worked. He did not want to pass out; he needed to stay lucid in case Ducard went back on his word and decided to leave him here with the doctor. Though this was not a hospital, Bane was still uneasy about his surroundings. This was why he had refused another dose of morphine before having his bandages changed. But now, as the physician continued to flush and medicate the lacerations, Bane wished he had not been so hasty in his decision.

            Before long, the physician grew annoyed with Bane’s involuntary movements during his work. This time when he reached for a syringe of morphine, Bane put up no protest. Instead he welcomed the oblivion and for the first time wished that he would never regain consciousness.

#

            “Bane, wake up!”

            “Leave him be, child.”

            “But, Papa, I want him to see the mountains.”

            “He will be seeing them for a long time to come. For now, let him rest.”

            Bane floated along close to wherever Talia was. He could hear the rhythm of her footsteps, but the sound itself was foreign to his ears. There was a softness to her tread, as if she was stepping on something other than stone. Well, he reminded himself, of course it was not stone—they were no longer in the pit. But where were they? Obviously not still at the doctor’s house. No, that torture was over; he could feel the security of the bandages—dry now, no blood or seepage of any kind. His stomach ached with bottomless hunger. How many days had he gone now without solid food?

            The air against his closed eyelids was cold, but it was a different type of cold from the pit. There was no dampness but instead a bite. There were so many smells that managed to pass through the layers of gauze, but he knew none of them. His natural curiosity insisted that he awaken and look around him, but the morphine demanded other things of him, and he had learned to obey it.

#

            The pleasant crackle of a fire awoke Bane, and the agreeable scent of smoke came to him as he gradually opened his eyes. He lay on his back, and above him was an odd sight. Some sort of fabric formed a convex roof over him, only a few feet above, certainly not high enough for a man to stand beneath. There was a small opening at its apex, and the gray smoke curled leisurely through the hole into blackness. Was that the night sky beyond?

            “Papa, he’s awake!”

            Bane’s attention shifted to Talia across the fire from him. She scurried from her father’s lap and over to him on hands and knees, a smile brightening her face, her cheeks a rosy hue. She looked so different from the last time he remembered seeing her—her face somehow fuller and aglow with new life, like the day she had been born, before the pit had put its mark of ownership upon her. She wore some sort of cloak made of thick animal fur, variegated in color—whites, browns, and grays—and a blanket was draped over her shoulders, but not her mother’s blanket—that lay atop Bane, the last of several layers of blankets and pelts covering him and providing delicious warmth along with the blazing fire. Not a fire made of charcoal but of wood, giving off a spicy, heady aroma.

            “How are you feeling?” Talia asked, lowering her voice now, as if afraid sound would pain him.

            Bane paused to consider the question and take stock of his physical self. The usual sticky dampness of the dressings remained absent, though his face was still heavily swathed. His jaw did not hurt as much either, and he found it a bit easier to speak.

            “Better,” he croaked out, his throat cottony dry.

            “Would you like some water?” Ducard asked. “The doctor said we can allow you direct fluids now.”

            Bane nodded, though curious about this news considering the damage to his mouth. Ducard came over to him, his large form awkwardly crouched in the cramped space. He reached for a nearby canteen.

            “I can do it,” Talia insisted eagerly.

            “Just wait,” Ducard ordered patiently. “I will give you the syringe.”

            Once the water had been drawn into a large syringe, Ducard handed it to his daughter then proceeded to unwind the part of Bane’s bandages that covered his mouth.

            “Do not touch it against him,” Ducard cautioned. “We don’t want to run the risk of contamination, and besides it would hurt him. Just squirt it slowly into his mouth.” He started to reach for the syringe. “Perhaps I should do it this first time.”

            “No,” Talia said, holding it away from him. “I can do it, Papa. I won’t hurt him.”

            Ducard’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Bane could tell that he was unused to being defied. “Very well,” he said. “I will help him sit up.”

            Talia smiled over her triumph, but when she turned back to Bane and focused on the exposed injuries to his mouth, her expression went to ruin. She faltered for a moment but then forcibly reclaimed her smile for him.

            “Open just a little,” she said in the softest of tones. “It doesn’t have to be much if it hurts too badly or if the bandages are too tight.”

            Feeling like a helpless baby bird, Bane obeyed, impatient to have his thirst quenched at last, to have something soothe his throat. He steeled himself in anticipation of pain and opened his mouth as far as possible, which indeed was not much because of the rustiness of his jaw and the restrictive bandages. With deep concentration, Talia leaned close and began to gradually squirt the contents of the syringe onto his tongue. He closed his eyes, gave a quiet grunt of deep pleasure as he swallowed.

            “Very good,” Ducard said to Talia. “You have steady hands. When it is empty, I will refill it. You can give him one more for now.”

            Once satisfied, Bane rested back against the packs that Ducard had settled behind him for support. Ducard put the syringe away in a sealed plastic bag and returned to his blankets across the fire. Talia remained beside Bane.

            “Are you warm enough?” she asked and received a nod. “Isn’t the fire wonderful? So much bigger than we used to have, isn’t it? And these furs are so soft. Papa said this is wolf fur. He shot them himself.”

            Bane’s hands drifted over the pelts. But even their luxurious texture could not make them more appealing to him than Melisande’s blanket, which he absently smoothed. He had feared from the start that Ducard would reclaim it. Would he eventually try to do so?

            Ducard said, “Talia has told me all sorts of stories about that blanket.”

            “I told Grandmama about it, too,” Talia added. “To help convince her that I had been with Mama, that I was who I said I was.”

            “Maysam?” Bane asked, muffled now that the bandages had been secured again. “So you found her?”

            “Yes. Once I got out of the pit, I did just what Mama told me, and went into the village nearby. I found a caravan that was going to a village near where Grandmama lives, and I was able to go with them. When I got there, I wrote to Grandmama and said just what had been in Mama’s letter. I had it memorized, of course. Then one of the boys from the caravan delivered it for me because I promised him that Grandmama would pay him well, just like Mama told me to say.”

            Bane’s fingers twitched anxiously at the thought of Talia wandering about the world of light and strangers by herself. “Did your grandmother come for you?”

            “She sent a man to find me. He took me to another village.” Here, Talia’s smile revealed the joy of her discovery. “Grandmama came to see me there. She reminded me so much of Mama.” Then her smile died. “She was so sad about Mama. She cried. So did I.”

            Bane took her hand. “You were very brave.” He gave silent thanksgiving for Maysam’s acceptance of her grandchild and for her charity to Talia. “I am…very proud of you. And your mama would be proud, too.”

            Talia’s eyes brightened. “Grandmama knew how to find Papa, and he came for me. Then I told him what had happened to you and Mama, and that’s when he brought his men to the pit. He wanted me to stay in the village where he had come to get me, but I told him I wanted to go with him, in case you were…” She frowned and stared at his blankets. “Well, in case you were still…there.”

            “Did Maysam tell your grandfather about you?”

            “No. And she said if I saw you again I was to tell you that she would never forget you for helping us. She said if you ever need her help, all you have to do is ask. She told me where to write to her.”

            “You must write her often. She will miss you.”

            Talia’s eyes betrayed her sadness over her grandmother. “I miss her, too. She was so very kind…and so pretty, just like Mama.”

            “Yes, I remember.” Bane touched her cheek. As he did so, he felt Ducard’s attention strongly upon him, which startled Bane, for he had forgotten that the man was even there, so accustomed was he to being alone with Talia, alone even amidst the pit’s population. And somehow he knew Ducard was aware of this reality, this profound bond that no one else could fully understand, not even a father.

            Talia looked to her parent, who had been thoughtfully listening to her story. “Papa is taking us to where he lives in the mountains. We’re almost there, aren’t we, Papa?”

            “Tomorrow,” Ducard said. “As long as this good weather holds.”

            “It’s even higher up than where we are now. The air is so different here, isn’t it? Papa said that it’s thinner, and that’s why it’s harder to breathe for people who aren’t used to it. The mountains are so beautiful, Bane. Wait until you see them! The snow is so white and clean and bright, even when the sun isn’t out. And it’s slippery, too, and you can melt it in your mouth and drink it. Jin was making snowballs and throwing them at me. Like this.”

            She dug her mittens into the hard-packed snow that made up the floor of their shelter. In amazement Bane watched her form a small ball, then she held it out to him. Taking it in his hands, he marveled at its texture and temperature, turning it over and over, the warmth of his flesh and the fire leaving behind moisture on his hands when he returned the snowball to Talia.

            “When you are feeling better,” she said, “we can throw snowballs at Jin.” A spark flashed in her eyes. “Or at Papa!” Abruptly she turned and threw the icy projectile at her father.

            With amazing hand-eye coordination, Ducard caught the snowball with one hand, never even blinking, showing no sign of surprise. A half smile raised one corner of his mouth, and Talia laughed.

            “Throw it back, Papa!”

            “I’m afraid not, my pet. This tent is too small for such games. I’ve let you stay up too late as it is, waiting for Bane to awaken like a mother hen waiting for her chicks to hatch. Now come back over here and let me tuck you in.”

            Before she obeyed, Talia turned to Bane with an apologetic expression. He knew she wished to kiss him good night, as she always had in the pit. Fresh pain flooded him when he realized her lips could never again touch his. He did not want her to leave him; he wanted her to crawl beneath the covers and keep him warm, not retreat to the far side of the tent. But, he reminded himself, this was the way of it, the way things should be, the way it should have always been for her—she with her true family.

            He knew from her sad little smile that she understood. She touched his shoulder and leaned in to bestow a gentle kiss against the bandages on his forehead. Impulsively he embraced her but only for a moment.

            “Good night, _habibati_ ,” he whispered, pleased to finally be able to use the feminine form of this endearment.

            “Good night, _Haris_.” She smiled. “That’s what Grandmama called you.”

            “Yes, I remember.”

            Her expression grew wistful, and she lingered.

            “It’s all right,” he assured.

            Yet he could tell that she preferred to stay with him, not because she felt little for her father but because the familiar was more comforting, at least for now. Across from them, Ducard stoked the fire, as if unmindful of what was playing out between them. But Bane knew better.

            Bane nodded encouragement to Talia, glancing pointedly toward her father. Finally, with a tiny sigh, she obeyed.

            Once Talia was wrapped in her blankets, with only her face visible, Ducard crossed back over to Bane to hang a fresh bag for his morphine drip.

            “I haven’t properly thanked you,” Ducard spoke softly as he removed the packs from behind Bane so he could lie flat once again. “And I don’t simply mean for taking care of my daughter.” His gaze settled upon Melisande’s blanket. “Once you are able, I would like to hear about my wife. I want to know everything that she had to endure there.” His steely eyes met Bane’s with cold resolve. “Everything.”


	75. Chapter 75

            Bane sensed someone near, a stranger. Instinctively alarmed, especially because of his vulnerable state, he fought his way through the medicinal haze, back to consciousness. Defensively, he brought his hands in front of his face as his eyes opened.

            “Do not be afraid,” the stranger said in a calming tone, close beside him.

            He was not a large man, just slightly taller than Temujin; Asian, weather-beaten, expressionless. Though tough in appearance, he exuded a gentleness from within. Beside him was a small table with bandage rolls and medical instruments.

            “I’m going to see him!” came the sound of Talia’s voice from beyond the wood-paneled room where Bane lay. “And you can’t stop me!” She was angry, rushing—he detected the quickness of her steps, as if she was being pursued.

            “Talia, you _will_ stop. You will not go in there. I am your father; you will obey me or there will be consequences.”

            Abruptly the door to Bane’s room opened, sliding sideways along a track instead of swinging on hinges like his cell door. Talia burst in. She ran to his bedside, opposite his attendant, her eyes swimming in angry tears. Bane’s attendant did not react, and when Henri Ducard arrived not far behind his daughter, the man stood respectfully immobile.

            Talia clutched Bane’s hand in both of hers, her expression desperate as she knelt beside the low bed. “I’m here,” she said, making Bane wonder if he had somehow cried out for her.

            Dark anger suffused Ducard’s face, but when he saw Bane awake, he halted his approach and immediately banished his raw emotions.

            “My apologies, Choden,” Ducard addressed the attendant, “for my daughter’s rude interruption of your work.”

            Choden gave a slight bow of understanding and pardon.

            “Talia, come away from there. You will be in the way.”

            “No, Papa!” she said, her open anger toward her parent surprising even Bane, who was quite used to her flashes of temper. “He needs me. He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

            “He is not alone. Choden is quite capable of caring for Bane’s needs without a child in his way.”

            “I’m not in the way.” She kept her back to her father. “And I’m not leaving.”

            “Your petulance will not be tolerated here, Talia. This is a place of peace. Peace is what Bane needs right now, not this disruptive display of stubborn willfulness. Now you will leave this room at once.”

            Tears slipped from her eyes. “No, Papa.” She pressed Bane’s hand to her lips to kiss then to her heart, as if hoping he would defend her position. But the pain of his wounds and the drugs in his system left him muddled and unsure what to do. While he did not want Talia to incur her father’s displeasure, he also did not want her to leave. Even when unconscious, he was able to detect her absence, and such occasions agitated him, for not only was he completely at the mercy of anyone wishing to harm him but so was Talia. After a decade of constant vigilance, his instincts still could not trust that even Talia’s own father could keep her safe.

            “Very well,” Ducard said with forced restraint. “I will not contribute to further disruption here, for Bane’s sake, but you will learn that a price must be paid for such blatant disobedience. I am your father, not some prison inmate you can hide from behind cell bars. Do you understand?”

            Talia swallowed her tears, a flicker of regret and fear in her eyes, but still she would not look at her father.

            “Do you understand?” Ducard’s question came as a staccato growl now.

            Bane’s immediate reaction was defensive anger toward Ducard, but he knew the man believed he was doing the right thing by shielding him from noise and strife, even that which was created by the one person whom Bane loved. So when Bane addressed Talia, he tried his best to sound authoritative: “Answer him.”

            Slight shame colored her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze. At last she murmured, “Yes, Father.”

            Her more formal choice of names surprised Bane. It seemed to have a similar effect on Ducard, whose forehead smoothed, banishing the stormy lines that had been etched there a moment ago. Ducard’s stare touched briefly, enigmatically upon Bane for a mere second before he left the room.

            Talia rushed to explain, as if afraid she had displeased Bane: “Every time they’ve changed your bandages since we left the pit, Papa hasn’t let me be with you. I told him that I should be; I know how much it hurts you.” She shot a protective glance at the impassive Choden who still had not moved. “The least I can do is be here for you. You do want me here, don’t you, _habibi_?”

            Never before had she used this endearment when speaking to him. It caused an unexpected lump in his throat. And though he wanted to say yes to her question, he instead replied, “You should obey your father.”

            Her expression collapsed, and her voice grew thin, “You don’t want me here?”

            “I don’t want you to see me this way…the way I look without the bandages.”

            “But you look this way because of _me_.”

            He shook his head. “It was my choice, not yours. I don’t regret it. And you…you should not blame yourself or feel sorry for me. I don’t want that; I don’t want that from anyone.” He turned to Choden and nodded his assent to proceed, then said to Talia, “You should leave, _habibati_.”

            Talia set her jaw, tightened her grip on him. “No. I should be here; I _want_ to be here.”

            Choden donned a surgical mask and picked up a small pair of bandage shears, waited with them poised above Bane.

            “Please, Ba-ba,” Talia whispered.

            Bane momentarily closed his eyes, cursed his weakness, nodded.

            “You must wear this if you are to stay while the bandages are removed,” Choden said in flawless English, holding another surgical mask.

            Bane took it from him, said, “Turn around, little mouse. I will tie it for you.”

            Once the mask was in place, she turned back to him, only her large blue eyes visible to reveal her sad smile. “Now,” she said, “I’m like you.”

#

            The morphine robbed Bane of his sense of time, so when he first ventured from his bed, he had to ask Talia how long he had been at the monastery.

            “It’s not really a monastery,” she said as Bane warily got to his feet with her assistance. “Papa said many, many years ago that’s what it used to be, so that’s what outsiders still think it is. Papa says that’s so he and the others who live here can live in peace.”

            “How many others are there?” His voice had a gravelly sound, as if the bandages somehow sanded down his words.

            “I’m not sure really. Maybe two dozen, but Papa says men come and go. Some come back, some don’t.”

            Bane’s head swam, and he felt nauseous, so he waited—leaning upon Talia’s shoulder—for the sensations to pass and the world to settle. He focused straight ahead on the only window in the small room. The glass was opaque and further masked by intricate, ornamental woodwork overlay, but sunlight filtered through, providing enough light to illuminate the space. Like the walls, the floor was made of wood planking, unadorned, showing years of wear, inviting. The only furnishings other than the bed was an armless wooden chair next to a simple writing desk. A small fireplace provided warmth, the fire now burned down to sizzling embers.

            “Are you sure you want to go out?” Talia asked warily.

            “Yes. Need to get back on my feet. Need to walk.” He rubbed his lower back.

            “Choden says he can help make your back feel better. I told him about your fall.”

            Bane grunted, tired of his debilities being on display. He started across the room, continuing to lean on Talia. When she opened the door, he hesitated just outside to take in his new surroundings.

            This part of the monastery was made up of multiple floors with a central atrium, the structure made solely of various types of wood, ornately, decoratively carved. Bane stood on the highest floor, looking downward toward the bottom floor where a handful of men sat at a table, eating and quietly talking. A couple of them glanced up at him but appeared neither surprised nor interested in his appearance. Each level had wooden catwalks around the circumference. Various doors led, no doubt, to the living quarters of the other men. The design reminded Bane of the prison shaft, but here the atmosphere was one of serenity and quiet, the wood—so unlike the cold stone of the pit—welcoming with its muted colors and its ability to absorb sound instead of rejecting it into reverberation. There were a few windows here and there, as well as skylights above, but all bore the same milky glass and carved ornamentation as the window in Bane’s room, as if specifically designed to encourage a man to look inward, not outward to the world beyond these walls.

            “My room is over there,” Talia said, pointing directly across the open space from where Bane leaned upon the catwalk railing. “But I’ve been sleeping with Papa in his room.” She frowned. “I tried to sleep by myself but…I couldn’t. I don’t like it.”

            “You can still sleep with me.”

            “Papa said I shouldn’t because of your IVs and injuries. He said I might hurt you.”

            Just then Henri Ducard emerged from the room adjacent to Talia’s. His small smile reflected satisfaction at the sight of his guest at last being vertical.

            Bane leaned close to Talia’s ear, whispered, “You won’t hurt me.” He winked. “I don’t like sleeping by myself either.”

            She gave him a private grin as her father started toward them.

            Ducard greeted Bane with a smile both genuine and warm—what Bane liked to think of as fatherly. Such emotions helped Bane stand straighter, allowed him to let go of Talia and—for a moment—the railing. If he had been physically able, Bane would have smiled back. He hoped the expression could at least be interpreted through his eyes, though he found himself squinting in the muted light of the monastery. How blinding the outside world must be!

            “I am pleased to see you out of bed,” Ducard said, then with a playful glance toward his daughter, continued, “Though I hope it is under your own volition and not due to a certain busybody’s nagging.”

            “Papa!” Although Talia blushed, it was plain to see she enjoyed his teasing and that no ill will remained from their last argument. “It was Bane’s idea. Tell him it was, Bane.”

            “It is still best if we don’t require too many words from our guest yet,” Ducard cautioned. “And having said that, why don’t you fetch his paper and pencil? I need to discuss some things with him, and I won’t be so cruel as to expect him to converse as if he were healthy.”

            “No,” Bane said, catching Talia’s sleeve as she started to turn away, then to Ducard, “No need.”

            Of course there certainly was a need, but Bane figured Ducard would not hold a lengthy discussion, and he would rather endure whatever needed to be endured instead of scribbling on scraps of paper like a crippled child. Since being injured he had felt less and less a man, as if something tried to drag him back to the days following his mother’s death when he had felt very small and helpless indeed.

            Ducard regarded him with a mixture of respect and uncertainty. For a moment he seemed about to ignore Bane’s response and send Talia on his errand, but then his smile returned. “Talia, I would like to speak to Bane alone for a few minutes.” Before she could protest the exclusion, he continued, “I believe Jamyang is going to milk the goats. If you hurry downstairs, you might be able to convince him to take you along.”

            The suggestion was met with immediate delight, and she darted for the nearest steps, calling a hasty good-bye to them.

            Chuckling, Ducard watched her go, leaning his forearms upon the railing. Bane allowed himself to put one hand against the rail for support as he, too, enjoyed the sight of Talia joyfully taking the steps two at a time, calling out to Jamyang—the cook—not to leave without her.

            “She is truly a remarkable child,” Ducard said, almost as if to himself or to someone other than Bane. Perhaps to Melisande.

            So much pride on the man’s face; so much, in fact, that Bane felt a nudge of resentment. After all, Ducard could take no credit other than genetics for the person Talia had become. But Bane quickly banished such selfish thoughts. He reminded himself that he should be greatly relieved that Ducard had embraced fatherhood when undoubtedly many men in such circumstances would have rejected all responsibilities, especially a man living so remotely.

            Once Talia had disappeared from sight, Ducard’s bright expression tempered, and he straightened to his full height, his shoulders squared to Bane who faced him and stood as tall as his aching back allowed.

            “There are no words I can aptly use, Bane, to express the depth of my gratitude for all you have done. And I believe you are not the type of man who seeks such attention, so I will spare us both any overt display. Yet that does not mean I can’t express my gratitude in other ways.” When Bane tried to dissuade him, Ducard held up a staying hand. “Hear me out first. I won’t tax your stamina nor unnecessarily cause you pain by demanding a long discussion about what I am about to say. Simply hear me out on the first matter. The second matter, however, will require your feedback.”

            Curious, Bane forced himself to concede with a nod.

            “I know enough from watching you these past two weeks and from listening to Talia to know that you will not change your mind about submitting to surgery.”

            Bane shook his head, and as he did so, he felt the morphine weakening. Perhaps he had been too hasty to stray from his bed. Yet he was afraid that if he requested to continue their conversation in his room, Ducard might decide to delay whatever it was he wanted to share.

            “The doctor who treated you briefly during our journey here… He is an inventor and a chemist as well as a physician. He has been valuable to me on several occasions, and likewise I have been valuable to him. Because of that relationship, he has offered to help you. Not with surgery,” Ducard quickly said when Bane shifted his weight in agitation, fingers twitching against the railing. “He believes that he can fashion a mask for you, a breathing apparatus that will administer enough analgesic to hold your pain at bay while allowing clarity of mind as well.”

            Bane’s expressive brow—no longer covered by bandages—wrinkled with keen interest, and he nodded for Ducard to continue.

            “He hopes to have a prototype ready within the month. After you try it, he will make any modifications required. But this is something new, so you must be prepared for trial and error. I don’t want you to expect flawless results right away.”

            Bane nodded eagerly. “No expectations,” he said, hating the laboriousness of his pronunciation. “Thank…you.”

            Ducard offered a thin smile. “Don’t thank me yet, my boy.”

            Bane expected Ducard’s reference to his young age to chafe him, but instead the phrase’s possessive form and the regard with which it was spoken buoyed Bane’s spirits even more, and for the first time he did not feel that Ducard viewed him as merely an obligatory burden. Melisande’s words came back to him then…the time when she had assured him that, if they were rescued, he would be a part of their family.

            “Now to the second matter,” Ducard’s voice drew him away from his bittersweet memories. Gravity darkened the man’s eyes to a deeper blue, more like Talia’s. “My daughter tells me you wish to find your father. And judging from your questioning of the prison doctor, I’m assuming you wish to find your grandfather as well.”

            Bane nodded.

            “Talia told me that your father knows nothing of your existence. And that he, like myself with Melisande, knew nothing about your mother’s imprisonment.”

            “No.”

            Ducard frowned. “Forgive me, Bane, but I feel I must speak frankly. Twenty-five years have passed. There is a very real chance—especially with your mother deceased—that your father might doubt your paternity. He may not believe—or at least not _want_ to believe—what you will tell him about your mother. And, of course, I am speaking from experience. To know what Melisande endured, for _my sake_ ,to hear it from my own daughter who survived the same nightmare… Well, I consider myself a man with the capacity to understand and accept much, but this…” He looked across the atrium toward his own room. “It was as if we were torn from one another a second time, yet this time—unlike the first—I have no hope of ever seeing her again. To be honest, Bane,” suddenly he sounded very tired, “…without Talia, I’m not sure I could have borne it a second time.” Then Ducard blinked once, discarding any self-pity before he looked back to Bane. “But enough about me and telling my troubles to a man who knows them better than anyone.” He gave a small, unconvincing laugh directed at himself. “Are you certain you want to find your father?”

            “He needs…to know. If not about…me, then about…my mother. I promised her.”

            Ducard nodded, understanding yet not without concerns. His solicitude pleased Bane.

            “You will write down all you can about him, and I promise you that I will locate him, no matter where he might be.”

            Unexpected emotions welled up in Bane, and now it was his turn to look away. Blinking at the three windows off to his left, beyond the catwalk, he said, “I want to come.”

            “That cannot happen until you are fitted with the mask. Let me locate your father first, then I will send for you. I won’t contact him, I won’t approach him. He will simply be observed until you are able to meet him. Agreed?”

            Unsure of his voice, Bane simply nodded, cursing the moisture that invaded his vision.

            “And what of your grandfather? You want us to locate him as well, yes?”

            “Yes.”

            “Before or after your father?”

            “Before. I don’t want my father to tell him about me. I…don’t want to give him the…chance to disappear.”

            “Very well. I believe it’s safe for me to assume such a meeting will not be…amicable.”

            Satisfied that he had banished any overt display of emotion, Bane turned back to him. “I want him to see… _where_ he sent my mother and how she… _we_ had to live. I want him to see it…smell it…taste it. I want to see his fear.”

            “And then?” Ducard asked almost hopefully. “What will you do once he has experienced those things?”

            Bane let go of the railing, straightened once again. “I will do what’s necessary.” When he spoke again, even the bandages could not muffle his resolute words: “I’m going to kill him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find out what happens next to Bane and Talia by reading my sequel, BEYOND THE SHADOWS.
> 
> And if you are interested in my writing beyond Bane's world, check out my author website: skkeogh.com


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